


Along a Wandering Wind

by Hope



Series: AAWW 'verse [1]
Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Adventure, Characters of color, Courtship, Epistolary, First Time, Friendship, LGBTQ Characters, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Multi, Queer Themes, Requited Love, Romance, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-06
Updated: 2011-06-06
Packaged: 2017-10-20 04:47:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 63,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/208888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/pseuds/Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just when Gwaine finds a reason to end his roaming, he must leave Camelot again, this time on royal orders. Whether and how he returns may depend on the secrets Merlin—and others—are keeping from him.</p><p>(A romance of letters, intrigue and knightly apprenticeship, set post-S3.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> This story could not have been completed without the support of my various alpha, beta and gamma readers: winterhill, vanessarama, true_statement, doro, msilverstar and the amazing neifile7, who helped me make the major changes that carved the story into a much better shape (and also came up with the summary. Seriously, thank you).

Gwaine’s being measured with a tape around his chest when the door creaks open after the briefest of knocks, and he’s still got his arms in the air when Gwen peeks into the room.

“Sorry, er. Sorry, I’ll just—”

Gwaine grins and tuts. “It’s all right Gwen, I’m quite decent,” he says generously.

Gwen doesn’t come all the way into the room, but stands in the half-open doorway. “I find that hard to believe, _Sir_ Gwaine,” she says, dipping into a tiny curtsey at the honorific but smirking all the same.

The tailor tugs his tape loose and steps away. Freed, Gwaine presses his hands to his chest. “You wound me, Guinevere.”

“Yes, well, that would be the point of being fitted for armour, wouldn’t it?”

Gwaine feels his smile grow a little crooked, but before he can respond the door opens further, and Merlin’s head pops around the corner above Gwen’s.

“You found him!” Merlin exclaims, grinning in a way that Gwaine can’t ever help but return when it’s directed at him.

“I suppose it is hard to track down a man in such demand,” Gwaine admits breezily, privately preening a little at the thought that they were both recruited to locate him.

“Ha ha,” Gwen says drily, but there’s a half-obscured scuffle behind the door as she leaves, and when Merlin finally wanders into the room, he’s rubbing at his side.

“Pointy elbows,” he mumbles in response to Gwaine’s raised eyebrow.

Gwaine doesn’t miss the sweep of Merlin’s gaze from his open shirt collar down to his stockinged feet, though Merlin doesn’t actually seem to be trying to hide it. Especially not when the tailor crouches down to measure the circumference of Gwaine’s thigh and Merlin’s expression shifts into something more thoughtful.

“Did you need me?” Gwaine prompts at length, when the tailor’s moved from left thigh to right, and then to measuring the full length of Gwaine’s leg, without losing Merlin’s interest.

“I, um. Yes.” Merlin scratches his head and squints, then points his finger at Gwaine in sudden recollection. “The quartermaster! He wanted to see you.”

The tailor finishes scribbling notes onto a scrap of parchment, and hands it to Gwaine after gathering the rest of his tools into his satchel.

Gwaine remembers to thank him before he leaves, and eyes the figures on the paper suspiciously before slipping it into his pocket. “Surely the Prince’s personal servant has better things to do than run messages around the castle?”

Merlin sidles closer, and Gwaine’s breathing picks up—but Merlin just plucks the parchment out of Gwaine’s pocket and steps back. He holds it up between two fingers. “Do you even know what to do with this?”

Gwaine frowns.

“I’ll take it to the smithy, then, unless you want to be fighting your next tourney in your skivvies.”

“Merlin—”

Merlin dances out of reach as Gwaine grabs for the parchment, but his playful grin falls away when he sees the look on Gwaine’s face. “What is it?”

Gwaine glances to the door quickly, then back at Merlin. Merlin doesn’t miss it, and his mouth tightens. “Gwaine?”

“It’s nothing. It’s not…” He trails off, then makes an attempt to start again. “Remember how I told you I was penniless?”

“Gwaine, there isn’t a tavern in Camelot that doesn’t know that about you.”

“It’s not—” His mouth twists, because he’s been trying, he has; not just because of Lancelot’s gently pointed comment about the knightly virtue of exercising _restraint_ , but because hangovers are even less fun when he has to be up at dawn for training. And Merlin’s words sting a little, which makes him feel more uncertain, because the last thing Gwaine is is thin-skinned, but… it’s _Merlin_.

Who’s looking at him thoughtfully, but not in amusement anymore, and Gwaine thinks that if the look turns to pity he might have to just storm out of the room and slam the door behind him, dignity be damned.

“You’ll receive a knight’s wages,” Merlin says. He waves Gwaine’s measurements in the air. “And as for this new livery and armour? Arthur’s paying for it from his own coffers, for all of his new knights.”

 _His_ new knights. The phrasing makes Gwaine twitch instinctively; though he can’t tell if it’s in rejection of being beholden to someone—to a _noble_ —or rather in mild pleasure of, well. Belonging.

He turns away from Merlin and reaches for his boots, but Merlin stops him with a hand on his shoulder. Bracing himself for further uncomfortable conversation, Gwaine’s taken completely by surprise when Merlin grabs the boots himself, then drops to his knees before him.

“Let me do this,” Merlin says, smile lopsided in a hopeful sort of way as he looks up at Gwaine.

Gwaine’s breath catches. “You don’t have to—”

“ _Personal_ servant, remember?” Without breaking eye contact, Merlin guides Gwaine’s hand to brace on his shoulder and keep his balance as he lifts Gwaine’s foot and tugs his boot on. “Besides, your feet can’t possibly smell worse than his.”

Gwaine snorts in startled amusement, and he can’t take his eyes off Merlin’s dark, bowed head, something soft and fond swelling in his chest. Merlin lowers the booted foot to the floor, and Gwaine shifts his weight as Merlin lifts the other, his hand cradling Gwaine’s ankle with a confident familiarity.

“Thank you,” Gwaine says quietly, meeting Merlin’s eyes when Merlin stands again. Merlin ducks his head, then turns the movement into a mocking bow.

“I’d be happy to perform any task for Sir Gwaine, the—” He glances at the scribbles on the parchment again then raises his eyebrows, mouth twisting in a smirk not unlike Gwen’s, though it manages to affect Gwaine in a way that Gwen’s completely failed to. “— _well endowed_.”

He skips and ducks under Gwaine’s half-hearted swipe, laughing back over his shoulder as he darts out the door.

◊   ◊   ◊

Even after a week, Gwaine’s still not used to walking freely about the castle, nor being treated with deference rather than the more familiar suspicion.

He’s also not quite used to seeing Merlin around in his natural environment; for all that he’d spent time with Merlin in Camelot before, at least half of that Gwaine had been drunk, and the other half either wounded or banished. Even with the disconnect between the Merlin undertaking menial chores and the one charging across the kingdom, he’s still the most familiar—and friendly—face amidst the complex collection of people in the castle into which Gwaine can’t help but feel like he’s been wedged, like a stone in a shoe.

At least Percival and Elyan are in the same boat. Merlin is hardly Gwaine’s only friend anymore; even Lancelot is companionable whether he’s at the tavern or on the practice field, although Lancelot does have a tendency to offer unsolicited advice on the true bearing and manner of a knight, usually when Gwaine’s lost count of how many cups he’s drunk.

But even Elyan and Percival seem to adapt with far less difficulty than Gwaine seems to feel most of the time—most of the time being every time Leon gives him an order, or he’s required to be somewhere at a certain time. Or wear something at a certain time. And, as spring begins to unfurl, delicate and mild, he becomes more and more resentful about that, and about the fact that any kind of displeasure he expresses about not being able to hie off and enjoy the sunshine—or fine local brew—is met with sound disapproval. Not that he doesn’t try to engineer such outings anyway.

This time he stumbles on Merlin in the battlements, unexpectedly for a change. He’s got in the habit of seeking out Merlin’s usual haunts whenever he’s freed from duty, though better are the times when Merlin seems to find an excuse to seek _him_ , a handful of stolen moments spent making each other laugh with new gossip and nonsense. This time, though, Gwaine’s come up here as an escape, if only for a few moments—he can breathe easier as soon as he reaches the top of the stairs, as if the weight of the castle above him had been palpable.

He’s caught up in his own thoughts as he turns a corner and finds Merlin scrambling to gather up an armful of things wrapped in dark cloth. When a book tumbles free of his arms and falls to the hard stone, spine first and pages flying open, Gwaine sees him wince and steps forward immediately, picking it up and easing it closed again, hand smoothing over the leather cover.

He goes to hold it out to Merlin, but Merlin’s just looking back at him, wide-eyed with surprise and something Gwaine isn’t sure he wants to name. His arms are full as he hugs the bundle to his chest, its ragged edges flapping in the same wind that’s flattening Merlin’s hair to his forehead.

“Can I help?” Gwaine offers, quirking his lips into a hopeful smile.

“No, no,” Merlin says immediately, somehow juggling his armful to a point that he can reach for the book and tuck it out of sight. “I didn’t expect— Sorry. I need to…” he stammers, then presses his mouth together in an utterly unconvincing smile and walks away, heading back in the direction that Gwaine came from.

Gwaine blinks after him, something in his chest sinking painfully.

Though Merlin’s quick exit was more disinterest than rejection, Gwaine’s used to handling that just as well, usually by shrugging it off and seeking a more willing companion… And now that he thinks of it, it’s been at least a month since he’s charmed someone into bed with him, and then he realises that even though he’s been drunk enough more than a few times, he hasn’t _wanted_ to.

As he stares after Merlin’s windswept figure and wants nothing more than to follow, he begins to realise just how dire his predicament is.

◊   ◊   ◊

The fact of the matter is, Lancelot’s pointed comments about knightly virtues haven’t been entirely unwelcome, something which alternately horrifies and humbles Gwaine. He’s horrified, because he occasionally finds himself thinking of what he would have thought even a year ago of taking advice on chivalry from a _knight_. And humbled, when he’s reminded of where that previous self might have ended up should Merlin and his Prince not have needed _rescuing_ that first time.

Besides, Lancelot’s not a noble himself, which makes his serenely-given advice easier to swallow. If ever there was a man defined by his deeds rather than his birth, it’s Lancelot. In his increasingly frequent moments of doubt, Gwaine compares himself to Lancelot and finds himself in a state not so much of self-loathing, but at the very least, self-disappointment. In comparison to Lancelot, his words seem empty; the brash philosophising of a drunkard whose only redeeming feature is an assortment of dirty sword fighting tricks picked up from an existence of not really belonging anywhere and owing a lot of people money.

Though it’s more often than not that Gwaine shares a meal with Lancelot, it’s when they’re feasting in the great hall that Lancelot’s words turn more to Knightly Virtues (as Gwaine has begun calling it in his head, with his remaining shred of sarcasm on the topic). Which is unsurprising, given that their seating arrangements limit their conversation partners—nowhere else in the castle does everyone’s _place_ become so obviously important. The nobly-born knights are seated closer to the royal table; Arthur’s table overlooking all but unbalanced with his father’s empty chair beside him; and Merlin is stood behind Arthur’s shoulder, outside the calculated revelry of the diners.

Regardless of where they’re sat, everyone in the hall is watching the royal table, to the obvious disgruntlement of the Prince. His discomfort strikes Gwaine as somewhat ironic; after all, the whole purpose of this show is to declare, ‘nothing amiss with the royals, see here’. At least the focus on Arthur means that nobody notices where Gwaine and Lancelot are looking.

Lancelot sighs deeply, the sound almost lost in the noise of the diners, but Gwaine has learned to read the movement in Lancelot’s shoulders. The serving maid slips in between them to fill Lancelot’s cup, and Gwaine smiles gratefully at her; Lancelot doesn’t look away from the object of his gaze, even as he lifts his cup to drink.

When Gwaine follows his line of sight, he sees Guinevere standing with Merlin against the tapestry behind Arthur. They’re speaking lowly to one another, but staring back in Lancelot and Gwaine’s direction; when Merlin notices Gwaine’s look he gives a small smile.

Gwaine wraps his fingers around the stem of his goblet, the dark surface of the wine shifting as he twists the cup on the table. When he looks up again, Merlin’s still watching him. He lifts his wine jug a little, long, white hands easily cradling its round belly, and Gwaine returns the gesture, lifting his cup in salute and taking a sip.

“Things were simpler before all of this,” Gwaine says as he sets the cup down, and god, he must have been exercising more restraint than he thought, if a single mouthful of wine is enough to make him maudlin.

Lancelot picks up the thread, as he often does these days. “And following a code isn’t easy?”

“Easy for you, perhaps,” Gwaine says, a little unkindly. “You _like_ nobles.”

“Well yes, I do like you,” Lancelot says frankly, and Gwaine feels suitably chastened; Lancelot is one of two people in Camelot who knows the truth of Gwaine’s birth, and he doesn’t bandy about the knowledge lightly. “And isn’t it you who’s always saying that deeds should speak louder than birth?”

Gwaine sees where this is going, and he’s already at its destination; if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t concede to being bloody _Arthur’s_ , would he?

At Gwaine’s morose nod, Lancelot continues. “Then let noble deeds speak also.”

Gwaine squints at him, wondering if Lancelot hadn’t quite found the thread after all.

Lancelot meets his gaze, then gestures his cup in the direction of the royal table—and royal servants—again. “Not only on the battlefield, my friend.”

“What do you mean?” Gwaine’s tone is a little flat, mildly insulted at the possible suggestion that his own brand of charm—which has got him through many doors, not to mention into many beds—perhaps could do with some improvement.

“I mean—” Lancelot leans closer, eyes soft and considerate, raising Gwaine’s hackles further. He takes another sip of wine in an attempt to stave off his own defensiveness, his gaze flicking over Lancelot’s shoulder to where Elyan and Percival are laughing together. Abruptly, he’s envious of them.

“There is value in following the code of chivalry in all aspects of life,” Lancelot continues. “Especially when the object of your affection clearly places value in such things.”

Lancelot looks pointedly back at the royal table— _actually_ at the royal table this time, where the Prince is dourly eating his meal, ignoring the mutters and bursts of laughter that swell around him. Gwaine blinks in confusion, thinking that Lancelot has got it so utterly _wrong_ , to think that _Arthur_ is his object of affection, but—oh.

He makes the connection of Lancelot’s pointed glance when Merlin steps forward again. Merlin’s posture is controlled and graceful, and he fills Arthur’s cup unobtrusively, smiling slightly when Arthur nods in rare acknowledgement. It’s an unusual display of professionalism from Merlin, but then he’s undoubtedly aware of the scrutiny directed towards Arthur.

Gwaine represses the urge to groan. Of course, Merlin clearly _adores_ Arthur, requiring so little prompting to launch into a dreamy speech about how great a king Arthur will make. And that’s to say nothing of Gwen, whose conflicted interest in both Lancelot and Arthur, if nothing else, is enough for Gwaine to understand that the extent of Lancelot’s Knightly Virtue is rivalled only by the Prince’s.

Lancelot nudges Gwaine’s shoulder with his own. “You don’t need to emulate him, _Sir_ Gwaine,” Lancelot says. Gwaine feels a little sulky at the gentle humour in his tone. “Certainly not to get Merlin’s attention; surely you can’t doubt that you already have that.”

It’s the first time in all their conversations of Virtues and codes and chivalry that Lancelot has outright mentioned Merlin’s name, and Gwaine’s heart lurches at the open acknowledgement. He feels laid bare, completely without warning, the great hall suddenly too hot and his pulse thrumming fast with the urge to flee. He shifts his feet under the table, even more aware now of Elyan and Percival’s bawdy conversation at Lancelot’s back, their laughter sharp-edged in his ears.

Lancelot seems unaware of the turmoil he’s caused, and Gwaine is grateful for that as he tries to force it back down. Lancelot’s gaze on him is not judgemental, nor speculative; Gwaine reminds himself that he would do well to listen this time as he has many others. While Gwaine’s mostly come to the private conclusion that by following his beloved code of Knightly Virtues, Lancelot has found himself left with a perpetually broken heart, the fact that Guinevere seems to gaze back at him with just as much longing is enough to stop Gwaine from dismissing his methods out of hand.

“You think I should… court him?” Gwaine isn’t even sure Lancelot hears him, his voice is cast so low; he’s not even sure he _wants_ Lancelot to hear him. He takes another sip of wine to break eye contact; it’s strange, how such a small amount of it can bring a flush of blood to his face.

“I think you should behave nobly,” Lancelot murmurs, and that’s not entirely helpful, but Gwaine can _try_ ; if Lancelot is suggesting that choosing to follow a code of chivalry is a noble deed in itself, then, well. Merlin adores nobility.

Lancelot responds to Gwaine’s grimace of determination with a raised goblet. Gwaine lifts his in return, then drains it. The serving maid steps forward to refill it without a word.

◊   ◊   ◊

“A squire,” Gwaine says blankly.

Arthur tests the edge of another blade before sliding it back into its rack and swiping his finger along the polished wood. He examines the dust left on the pad of his finger and frowns. “That’s what I said.” He turns his head and bellows, “Merlin!”, then faces Gwaine again. “And before you begin, it’s not something that’s under discussion.”

Gwaine closes his mouth and crosses his arms over his chest. “You want me to be responsible for _another person_ ,” he says, deeply sceptical.

Arthur gives him an unimpressed look, and Gwaine must admit he’s got that perfected to an art. It twists an anxious coil of inadequacy in his belly, and god, why’s it so _difficult_ in Camelot, living amidst all the pomp and snobbery of a royal castle, to remember that he doesn’t care what this man thinks of him?

Though that’s a lie, of course. Gwaine hasn’t worked out yet if he needs to quash the part of him that itches to rail and reject the position he’s been given, or if the quashing itself would be a horrible betrayal of his own principles.

“I rather thought it’d be the other way around, actually,” Arthur says bluntly. “ _Merlin!_ ” He picks through the scattered pieces of armour strewn about the huge work table in the middle of the armoury.

“What am I supposed to even _do_ with a squire?”

Before Arthur can respond, Merlin stumbles in, panting with exertion. “What?”

Arthur rolls his eyes, and Gwaine can see his jaw clench. He represses the urge to smirk, which is much more difficult to do once Merlin winks at him.

“Apparently I’m to be assigned a squire,” Gwaine shares.

Merlin looks at him askance, then shrugs after a moment. “You could do with a caretaker, I suppose.”

“Merlin, I can’t see how your opinion on the subject should matter at _all_ ,” Arthur interrupts, but he seems pleased with Merlin’s unwitting support. “Especially as this isn’t up for debate.”

“Do I know him?” Merlin continues, unfazed, even seeming to gain enthusiasm on the subject. Gwaine feels his indignation fade into resignation.

“Merlin, despite what you seem to believe, I’m not _actually_ a fishwife and do not appreciate your love of gossip—”  

“Lord Galeron’s son. The youngest one. They’ve been promising him for months, haven’t they?” Merlin bounces on his heels a little, smiling at Arthur eagerly. “Is it?”

Arthur stares at him wordlessly for a moment, then points to the armour on the table. “Polish.” —to the sword rack— “Sharpen.” — to the knotted mess of chain mail — “Mend.”

Last of all, he points to Gwaine. “Two weeks,” he says, glaring, before sweeping out of the armoury.

“A squire,” Gwaine says miserably. He’s barely capable of being responsible for _himself_. Of course he can’t speak that aloud to Merlin, though he’d come close to openly acknowledging it to Arthur.

Merlin hoists himself backwards up onto the table, heels of his palms braced on the edge and feet swinging just above the ground, his good mood seemingly unaffected by Arthur’s parting demands. He leans to bump his shoulder against Gwaine’s, and Gwaine sighs, resting back against the table to keep the contact between them, small as it is. His arms are still folded and suddenly it feels sullen and awkward, but he’s not quite sure what to do with them, so he keeps them where they are, and stares down at Merlin’s flexing knees.

“It will actually be good for you,” Merlin says. “Not only do you get to order someone about, but it’ll be someone who actually _knows_ about all this knightly stuff. Which is more than I can say for myself.” Gwaine fancies that the touch of Merlin’s shoulder against his own becomes a little firmer. Merlin’s voice definitely softens. “I can’t take care of you forever, after all,” he says, humour in his low tone, all soft-edged.

“What if I want you to?” Gwaine says before he can lose his nerve.

Through their scant contact he feels Merlin’s breath catch. The response is tiny but unmistakable, and it sends heat flushing through Gwaine’s body, his fists sweaty where they’re clenched under his elbows. Seduction comes easily to him: a suggestive word into an ear softened by ale; a hand on the knee, the thigh; a kiss that invites more. But _wooing_? The honesty of his own words—and intentions—have left him at a loss.

“Gwaine,” Merlin says, Gwaine’s name rich with meaning. In the silence of the armoury, Gwaine can hear him take a deep breath.

They both startle as the door opens again, the heavy wooden latch knocking loudly as it’s lifted, and Elyan strolls in, grinning as he sees them. Gwaine unfolds his arms and moves away from Merlin, pushing off the table and sauntering toward Elyan, meeting him half-way with a clasped wrist. Behind him, Gwaine hears the scuffle of Merlin’s feet landing on the floor again, and then the rattle of armour being shifted about.

Gwaine swallows, forces a smile on his face. “Are you suffering from this squire business as well, my friend?” he asks.

Elyan glances over to Merlin and back to Gwaine again. “No? You’ve got yourself saddled, then?”

“You haven’t?”

Elyan laughs. “Probably because I can already tell a pauldron from a gorget.”

“You might get one yet,” Merlin says soberly from somewhere behind Gwaine. “A lot of knights were lost not that long ago. The king’s incapacity isn’t the only reason you’ve all been asked to stay.” _You_ meaning Lancelot and Gwaine and Elyan and Percival, of course. Those for whom Arthur has rejected the tenets of knighthood—and in Gwaine’s case, banishment—to knight.

Gwaine’s smile falls away, and Elyan meets his gaze with sympathetic guilt.

“Camelot is weak,” Merlin continues bleakly. “The King is unfit to rule. Morgana’s betrayal from the heart of the royal house has damaged more than just his wits. Arthur’s position right now isn’t as strong as you might think it is.” He returns to Gwaine’s line of sight, arms full of dismembered steel shapes, only vaguely recognisable to Gwaine—he knows what a gauntlet looks like, anyway. “If it wasn’t for the total destruction of Cenred’s army, we’d have a lot more to worry about than squires right now.”

He doesn’t seem cheerful about this last cause of Camelot’s good fortune, leaving the armoury with only a final glance and strained smile behind him. Long after he’s gone and Gwaine has followed Elyan back to the garrison, the low itch of anxiousness he seeded in the back of Gwaine’s mind lingers.

◊   ◊   ◊

Gwaine notices more, then—that perhaps the aloofness of the royal castle isn’t necessarily all snobbery, but a bit of worry felt rather genuinely. The preoccupation had been difficult to notice before Merlin had obliquely pointed it out; not only does Gwaine lack experience for comparison, but it’s an emotional leap for him to empathise with people for whom this is thoroughly _home_. Even if it did occur to all the folk of the castle to simply leave in order to escape impending danger, it might not actually be possible for some of them.

Merlin’s determined independence even in the face of Arthur’s most priggish moods gives Gwaine the impression that Merlin is suffering there under his own volition, though. He’s made it clear enough that he’s more than capable of taking care of himself, after all, and others besides. Gwaine wasn’t merely flirting when he made his confession to Merlin in the armoury, and he feels restless and edgy when he remembers it.

Though even Merlin seems more preoccupied than usual of late, and the less Gwaine sees of him, the more he occupies Gwaine’s thoughts, until finally he decides to take Lancelot’s words to heart. Shortly thereafter, he finds himself knocking on Arthur’s door, clutching at his courage before it slips between his fingers.

“Enter,” the Prince calls shortly from within, and he doesn’t look up immediately when Gwaine steps inside. Gwaine can’t quite step _beyond_ the inside of the door, though, because Merlin’s in the room too—of course he is, and Gwaine curses himself for an idiot—stoking the fire and looking up at Gwaine with an expression that seems mildly startled.

“Is everything all right?” Merlin asks.

When Gwaine just gives him a weak smile in response, Arthur rises from his desk with a mighty scraping of wooden chair against stone floor, and says brusquely, “Right, Merlin. Out.”

“But—”

“Do you _want_ to question your dismissal? Because if you really want to stay here, I’m sure I could come up with some more things for you to—”

“Going,” Merlin cuts him off, and is sidling behind Gwaine and out the door before Gwaine can barely blink, though he does manage to meet Merlin’s concerned gaze for a brief moment before he’s gone.

“Come here.” Arthur’s definitely paying attention to him, now, and Gwaine pulls on his old cloak of confidence, coming forward with a swagger in his step and finding an easy grin from somewhere to plaster on. Arthur examines the expression closely, with rather more scrutiny than Gwaine is really comfortable with. “Speak.”

“I’m not on duty this morning.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

Surely Arthur wasn’t this much of a ice princess when Gwaine was saving his bloody life. Still, he doesn’t need Arthur’s empathy, just his _permission_.

“I was hoping to ride out with Merlin.”

Arthur’s expression takes on something that looks more like suspicion. “ _Ride out?_ ” he asks, as if the term is incomprehensible to him. “Where?”

Gwaine represses the urge to fidget. “Nowhere in particular. Just… out. If you would consider it?”

Arthur doesn’t seem any less perplexed. He barks out a laugh, though, and while startling, to Gwaine’s huge relief it’s not one of ridicule. “Are you suggesting I could _make_ Merlin do anything?”

Gwaine frowns in confusion. “No, just that… you might consider giving him the morning off.”

Arthur’s head draws back a little from where he was leaning forward to peer at Gwaine, though his scrutiny doesn’t cease. “He runs errands for Gaius every third morning. You might find he needs an escort to go foraging for… bandages and so forth. Whatever it is he gets up to.” He waves a hand dismissively, finally looking away to shift around parchment on his desk, and Gwaine feels half the muscles in his body relax from where he hadn’t realised they’d been tensing.

“Thank you, Sire,” he says, a little embarrassed at the relief apparent in his tone, and Arthur looks up at him sharply again.

“You’d best go before you miss him, then.”

Gwaine sketches a bow and exits rapidly.

He uses all the knowledge of the castle’s shortcuts he’s collected over the past few weeks, and curses all those he’s yet to learn. He moves as quickly as he can while maintaining decorum, first to the kitchens to charm a not-too-simple meal out of the day cook, and then to the stables. Merlin’s not there, and Gwaine prays that he hasn’t already left—either for the lower town, or somewhere in the castle, or out of the citadel entirely—before Gwaine has a chance to speak with him.

He bursts into Gaius’ chambers breathlessly, and the old man himself stares at him in shock, hand clutching at his chest. “Sir Gwaine, I never—”

Merlin steps through the open door of his room, his expression of puzzlement not easing as he sees it’s Gwaine. “Are you—”

Gwaine strides past Gaius, and Merlin backs into his room before his approach.

Gwaine shuts the door behind him, and then it occurs to him that forcing himself into Merlin’s room with Merlin in it is not the most chivalrous choice he could have made. He rubs his hands over his eyes and then internally curses the notion for a bad idea; what next, a _chaperone?_

Merlin would probably punch him in the nose for even thinking it, or at least laugh him out of Camelot.

When Gwaine lowers his hand again, Merlin’s staring at him in open concern. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, I—” Gwaine takes a deep breath. “I was hoping to escort you. Today. Outside the citadel.”

He can’t help but feel a bit slighted by the way Merlin’s expression turns to complete bafflement at that, though perhaps it’s the fact that it resembles Arthur’s so closely that makes Gwaine want to squirm.

“Escort me,” Merlin confirms flatly. “Is this what you were speaking to Arthur about?” His eyes narrow. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing, I—” This is not going to plan. “I just want to ride with you.” Gwaine fumbles for his charm, finds it cowering out of reach, and brings out the most hopeful smile he can manage.

Merlin stares at him. His mouth twitches, as if he’s unsure if he’s supposed to be smiling back. “Are you all right?”

“ _Yes_ , I just—your royal _highness_ says it’s all right, and I know you have the morning off, can we please just—”

“You asked him if you could _ride with me?_ ” Merlin looks faintly horrified at that, and Gwaine’s heart sinks.

“I—”

“Why would you...” Merlin’s hands make an abortive movement, as if with the physical urge to prevent something that’s already happened. “Oh god, what did he _say?_ Would it have been too difficult for you to just _ask—_ ”

“Merlin.” Merlin’s mouth closes tightly as Gwaine cuts off his escalating consternation. “Please.” Gwaine hunches his shoulders a little in supplication, making an effort to meet Merlin’s eyes, and his charm makes the slightest appearance in his self-deprecating smile. “I brought food?”

Merlin closes his eyes and shakes his head, and Gwaine feels his hope fade—but then when Merlin looks at him again, the agitation has melted away and left amused resignation in its wake.

“I do actually still have work to do,” Merlin says grudgingly. “And if Arthur _ever_ brings this up again, then you’ll be the one bearing all responsibility for what happens after that.”

Gwaine grins winsomely. Merlin rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling back despite himself.

 

By the time they’ve finally run Merlin’s errands through the lower town and have ridden out to the woods beyond the cleared fields just outside the city walls, the sun has warmed Gwaine to the point of nearly roasting under his heavy cloak. The canopy of shade under the new leaves is welcome, and Gwaine’s keen eye has spotted an ideal place to stop—far enough from the road for privacy, but not so far as to suggest he’s attempting anything… unchivalrous.

Merlin sighs as he carefully removes the food from Gwaine’s saddlebag. “Do you know how to pack _anything?_ How did you manage to survive this long fending for yourself?” He bites into an apple, holding the fruit between his teeth absently while he unwraps the round of cheese Gwaine had obtained with some expert cajoling.

Gwaine stares, then shakes himself out of it, pulling the bag away from Merlin. He grimaces as he uncovers what was once a small collection of pickled eggs. While Merlin’s still preoccupied with breaking up their loaf of bread, Gwaine tosses the ex-eggs surreptitiously over his shoulder.

“What was that?” Merlin asks at the sound of them landing, his voice a little muffled as he rubs his nose with the back of his hand, threadbare sleeve dangling loosely around his narrow wrist.

“Pheasant?” Gwaine offers Merlin an innocent smile.

Merlin laughs, and takes another bite of his apple. Gwaine sinks his teeth into an overripe, somewhat squashed plum, the juices running down his chin.

Then Merlin makes an odd, sharp noise and starts choking.

Alarmed, Gwaine kneels towards him and starts pounding him on the back until Merlin holds up a hand for him to stop, heaving in breaths at last.

“What was that about?” Gwaine asks, bewildered.

“Sneezed,” Merlin croaks shortly, and sniffles. “Never mind. Cheese?”

He continues to sniff as they share their food, blinking and wiping his eyes, and on one memorable occasion propelling a peeled grape from between Gwaine’s upheld fingers to somewhere into the underbrush with the force of his sneeze. That incident is followed by profuse sniffling and even more profuse apologies, and Merlin stepping away into the trees for a few moments before he comes back with apparently clearer breathing (but no grape).

“It’s always like this at the start of spring,” he explains nasally when Gwaine expresses his concern. “I’ll get used to it. By summer I can roll around in the hay with the best of them.” Apparently realising what he’s just said, Merlin flushes deeply, and he shakes down his loose sleeve to cover half of his face with the next wipe of his nose.

When they’ve eaten enough to feed a small army, Merlin lies back on the spread-out cloak and groans contentedly. He rests his hands on his belly, then, when Gwaine helpfully tucks a saddlebag under his head, reaches up to wrap one of his hands in the leather strap. Gwaine reclines on his side, propping himself up on his elbow, and watches the sleepy flutter of Merlin’s eyelashes and the twitch of his nose.

After a few moments of comfortable silence, Merlin turns his head to look back, his mouth curved in a small, pleased smile. “What?”

“Just enjoying the scenery,” Gwaine says guilelessly, and reaches out to hook a finger in the woven leather encircling Merlin’s wrist. The cord is warm and worn, and he feels Merlin’s tendon flex against his knuckle. “What’s this?”

“Nothing, really.” Merlin’s smile drops a little into contemplation, and he lowers his eyes to watch Gwaine’s finger slip idly back and forth between leather and skin. “A friend gave it to me, before I came to Camelot for the first time. Well.” Merlin looks back up at the canopy above, lifts his other arm to wipe his nose again. “Not this exact one. It… I lost it, a while ago. But—well. This one is… just so I remember.”

The contented mood of moments before seems to have slipped into melancholy without so much as a by-your-leave. Gwaine lets go of the leather to draw the back of his fingernail along the delicate skin on the inside of Merlin’s wrist, and it brings Merlin’s attention back to him immediately. When Merlin turns his head again, Gwaine realises just how close he is.

“You’re not from Camelot?” Gwaine murmurs.

“Ealdor,” Merlin says just as softly, and Gwaine can feel the warm puff of his breath against his face. “Not even in the realm. So officially—” Merlin turns his hand a little, fingers curling against Gwaine’s. “—I’m not really even a subject.”

His fingers are dry and warm against Gwaine’s, and Gwaine belies the rabbit-leaping of his heart as he shifts his own slowly. Merlin flexes back and their fingers interlock.

“Merlin,” Gwaine says, and swallows, looks down at their joined hands, and then back to Merlin’s open face. “Would you—”

Before he can complete the sentence, there’s a shriek from the woods behind them that sounds like someone’s shoved a sword into the grind of a millstone with a good deal of anger. Gwaine’s on his feet with his sword out before it’s ended, and he whips around at the sound of something very loud crashing through the woods towards them.

When he turns to check, Merlin’s standing behind him wide-eyed, cheese knife clutched in his hand and hair sticking directly up at the back.

“Stay behind—” Gwaine starts to say, but then Merlin shouts, “Look out!” and something very heavy knocks Gwaine down and everything goes painful and dark.

When he cracks open his eyes again, light stabs in directly to the back of his skull, and he groans and squeezes them back closed. His body feels heavy and immobile, and yes, it’s the back of his skull that’s the issue—a deep ache clasps his head, throbbing outwards and down the column of his spine.

There’s a soft touch on the top of his head, though, and another on the side of his face. And he’s not entirely sprawled on the ground; there’s warmth underneath his neck and shoulders as well. “Just a moment,” a voice says from above, and then there’s a hand cupping gently over his eyes. “Open.”

It’s less painful this time, with the cover of pinkish darkness and fingers too close for him to need to focus. They slowly draw away and Gwaine blinks as his eyes adjust; the shifting blurriness above resolves to the leisurely wafting leaves dappling the blue sky, and Merlin’s face looking down at him in concern.

“What… the hell was that?” Gwaine slurs, then winces as rolling his head causes more stabbing pain to the back of his skull. He tries to touch the source of the pain, but his hand is caught and lowered to his side again.

Merlin laughs softly, and Gwaine realises he’s lying half in Merlin’s lap when he rocks with the movement of it. “Giant pheasant.”

“Giant… what?” He goes to sit up then groans, and Merlin shushes him, pressing a hand to his chest until he settles again.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Merlin says. His hand moves to press against Gwaine’s forehead, then comb gently back through his hair, and Gwaine decides that being an idiot is certainly the last thing he’d ever want to be. “Apparently it was attracted to the food. Pickled eggs, to be precise.”

Gwaine cringes a little, and Merlin cradles the back of his neck while he turns his head to look. The pheasant is indeed giant, and—from the size of its claws, and god, _teeth_ —very mean. And very dead. “How did you—?”

“Um,” Merlin says. “When it knocked you down you lost your sword, and, well, while it was distracted, I sort of… stabbed it.”

“ _Sort of?_ It’s skewered!”

“It was very distracted,” Merlin says. “By you.” He’s got that concerned look again, staring down at Gwaine while his fingers stroke down Gwaine’s temple, then tuck hair behind his ear. “They weren’t pheasant eggs, were they?” he asks, a hint of humour in his tone.

Gwaine tries to push himself up again, then groans in pain and slumps back.

Merlin sighs, and leans to ease an arm under his shoulders. “Come on, then,” he says. “Back to Gaius.”

◊   ◊   ◊

Gwaine’s taken off duty for a couple of days—though, if he’s honest with himself, he’s had hangovers that hurt more than a giant pheasant to the head—and Arthur sends Sir Leon and some other knights familiar with Camelot’s surrounds out to roust the woods for any more beasts. When they ride back later that day, there’s an extra rider, and he’s hustled into the castle and directly to one of the King’s rooms.

The King, of course, is absent from said rooms: he’s been bedridden since Arthur freed him from his own dungeons. At least, that’s what Gwaine hears whispered in the corridors of the castle. Arthur is generally in too foul a mood to be questioned about it, even if Gwaine were feeling particularly foolish enough to ask, and he can’t speak to Merlin about it either. As the days go on, Merlin seems to become more and more tight-lipped about the Prince, as if drawing his defences around him. Gwaine admires him for it, even as he feels a tiny, unpleasant prickle of jealousy.

He assumes Merlin’s in there now, along with Arthur and the rider, and Leon and Kay, and Gwaine’s not really surprised to find Gwen lingering in the halls nearby.

The look she gives him is tight with worry. “It’s a messenger from Escetia,” she says in a low voice when Gwaine draws near. Her eyes dart to follow a chambermaid as she passes them by, and Gwen doesn’t continue until the woman’s footsteps have tapered off down the staircase. “He brings news from King Uther’s spy in Cenred’s court. Morgana used to ask after him… if I’d seen him come in.” Her lips press together and she cuts her gaze away, staring blindly past him, her hands knotting in her pinny.

“Is it bad news?” Gwaine prompts, half to bring her back from whatever place her recollections have dragged her to, half because the knowledge she’s already imparted has set an unpleasant sense of unease to stirring in his belly.

“He’s said nothing, at least not outside that room,” she murmurs, her gaze coming back to him for a moment before focusing on the closed door. She shrugs helplessly, and Gwaine gets the sense that both the haste and silence with which the messenger was shut away does not bode well.

It’s a long time before the door opens again, and when it does it’s Sir Leon who emerges. He catches sight of them immediately. “Sir Gwaine,” he says, not a hint of warmth in his tone, “I believe you have duties, do you not?” His expression is tense, brooking no folly, and Gwaine dips his head, chastened.

Gwen gives an awkward curtsey which Leon nods curtly in response to before turning on his heel and stalking down the corridor, and Gwaine and Gwen share one final look before parting ways.

 

Gwaine doesn’t see Merlin around the castle for the rest of the day—even busy, he’s wont to catch a glimpse of him running errands from a distance, if nothing else—and so in the evening he begs off drinking with Percival to seek him out.

For the past few nights at least, Gwaine has seen Merlin in Gaius’ rooms after supper, ostensibly to check up on his head injury, or, according to Merlin, his bruised ego. Gaius himself is occupied with the King more often than not, and Gwaine takes great pleasure in cajoling laughter out of Merlin in these encounters, willing Merlin’s touches to linger longer as, in a gesture that’s surely only token by now, Merlin’s deft fingers feel for the knot on the back of Gwaine’s skull. The moments are only ever fleeting, though—Merlin always cutting things short, albeit reluctantly, to go and settle Arthur for the night, and Gwaine leaving before Gaius returns.

This evening the rooms are deserted, the cluttered paraphernalia taking on an odd air of poise when Gwaine edges in silently, as if they’re anticipating the return of the rooms’ occupants. It becomes more unsettling the longer Gwaine waits, and at length he sits on one of the benches by Gaius’ table. After another while he swings his leg around to straddle the bench, and, once jiggling his knee for long minutes has not yielded sufficient distraction, begins flicking through one of the tomes scattered on the table.

The ink is faded, symbols arcane and meaningless (to Gwaine’s eyes, at least) and he turns the pages with dull interest until the pictures become more familiar. He takes in the script idly, and becomes lost in the over-formal language of times past describing the use for particular herbs and other substances; ground horse bone, crushed hemlock, swamp water…

He’s not sure how much time has passed when the door opens again, but his neck is stiff from bending over the table and he’s nearly a third of the way through the book, so he suspects it’s considerably later than it was.

Merlin’s standing in the doorway, expression half-perplexed, half-anxious as he stares at the book, and then at Gwaine. “What are you doing here?” he asks tightly.

Gwaine swings his leg back over the bench so he’s facing Merlin. His stiffness, suddenly, has nothing to do with posture, the itch in his palms everything to do with Merlin's odd expression.

Gwaine rubs his hands on his knees to prolong having to answer. “I was waiting for you,” he says at last, voice a little rusty from lack of use.

Merlin closes the door and comes towards him, his frown becoming more pronounced. This much closer Gwaine can also tell just how exhausted Merlin is; his jaw tense and mouth tight, eyes drawn. He doesn’t come much closer than half a dozen paces, then turns away from Gwaine to scrub his hand over his eyes.

“You can’t be here,” he says, voice brittle when he resurfaces. He huffs out a sigh and walks towards his room. “I need to sleep.”

Gwaine leaps to his feet, and is behind him in a few long strides. “Merlin—”

“You can’t come in here,” Merlin says, hoarse and tired as if he’s been having that argument all afternoon, wheeling around as Gwaine steps into his room.

“Merlin,” Gwaine soothes, holding his hands out, palms down. “I was only—”

“You can’t keep behaving like—like we can see each other whenever you want,” Merlin spits out, teetering on the edge of vicious.

Gwaine blinks, swallows; braces for whatever Merlin will say next.

Merlin stares back at him with desperate, sad eyes, then looks away. “We both have responsibilities—duties, and it doesn’t matter how much we—” He paces a few steps away, hand over his eyes again.

“Duty isn’t _everything_ , Merlin,” Gwaine begins, keeping his tone low and easy. “You can’t expect—”  

“It is,” Merlin cuts him off sharply. “Arthur _needs_ me, I can’t just— And you have to—”

“Forget Arthur,” Gwaine says softly, stepping towards him. He gently grasps Merlin’s shoulder, and it’s strung taut under his hand. “I didn’t come to Camelot for Arthur.” He takes a deep breath, screwing up his courage. “I came for you.”

“You _can’t say that!_ ” Merlin shouts, twisting abruptly and throwing Gwaine’s hand off; Gwaine stumbles a few paces back. Merlin’s expression is agonised, but as Gwaine watches, it settles into that familiar, fierce resolve.

“Leave,” Merlin commands curtly.

Gwaine’s heart is in his throat, but he forces himself to speak through it. “Merlin—”

One moment he’s in Merlin’s room, the next he’s tripping backwards down the stairs from Merlin’s door as it’s slamming in his face. Hands shaking and breath tight in his constricted lungs, Gwaine waits to listen for sound behind the door, but hears none.

The room seems to teeter around him; Gwaine half expects the glass to start shattering on the shelves, and the floor all but shifts under his feet as he stumbles across it and out the door. The stairs tilt ominously before him and Gwaine braces himself against the wall, pressing the heels of his palms against his closed eyes for long moments. Then he drops his hands again and begins the descent.

◊   ◊   ◊

Gwaine sleeps little, and half the castle seems affected by the same dragging sense of anxiousness the next morning. On the practice fields, both the Prince and Sir Leon are absent, and Sir Bors a decidedly poor substitute. They don’t have to put up with it for very long, though; before the mid-morning bell has rung, there’s a servant waving frantically on the sidelines, and his overstated deference when Bors calls a halt and walks to meet him makes Gwaine twitch.

Bors has a look of solemn distaste on his face when he returns. “Sir Lancelot,” he says. “Sir Percival, Sir Gwaine, Sir Elyan. You have Prince Arthur’s summons.”

Gwaine exchanges glances with his fellows and sheathes his blade. Those remaining are stony-faced, the selection of the Prince’s knights in particular not escaping anyone’s notice. With the speculation he’s heard whispered about the corridors of late, Gwaine’s almost convinced that he’s going to have to fight his way into the castle, a suspicion not eased by the fact that the somewhat twitchy servant impresses on them the need for great haste, and thus they’re still mostly armoured and armed as they follow. They make it to Arthur’s rooms without incident, though, and when they enter they find the Prince waiting with Sir Leon—and, to Gwaine’s surprise, Gaius. The congregation of them is familiar; the only person missing from attendance is Guinevere.

Merlin is standing a little behind Arthur with his hands behind his back, his typical pose for all formal occasions. When Gwaine tries to meet his gaze, Merlin looks away, throat moving as he swallows, and it sends the hollow, sick feeling that Gwaine had managed to shove aside for most of the day rushing back into his gut.

“Excellent,” Arthur says, standing as they enter the room. “Close the door behind you, that’s the way. Sit down.”

They arrange themselves around the narrow table, jostling for space a little, and Arthur sits at the head. He takes a deep breath, looking at them each in turn before beginning.

“Yesterday, a messenger of my father’s spy in Cenred’s court came bearing news of great import. King Cenred is dead, murdered by the sorceress Morgause, and, apparently due to a lack of living heir, the court has been run by an inept series of murderous earls for nearly a month, now.”

Gwaine feels Percival shift next to him, and hears a similar metallic susurrus of chain mail around the table, but doesn’t look away from Arthur. In the pause, Arthur returns Gwaine’s gaze briefly, his chin dipping minutely. He looks away as he begins speaking again.

“In light of the fact that Cenred’s armies were defeated by Camelot’s, Escetia is ours to claim, but we must act quickly. Gwaine, Lancelot,” he says, looking at them each in turn, “you and Sir Kay will accompany a party of soldiers along with Sir Ector to Escetia, to occupy the castle and establish my father’s rule. Sir Kay is overseeing military preparations at present; I have given him leave to act in my stead to provide you with authority on matters of security and combat.”

“Sire,” Lancelot murmurs acquiescence. Gwaine cannot seem to speak at all.

“I’m sure that both your experiences in Escetia—and indeed, outside of Camelot in general—will greatly ease the experience of Camelot’s new subjects, and aid the peaceful transition to my father’s rule,” Arthur continues. “I’m sure you’re aware that speed in this matter is of the essence; Sir Leon has arranged for your party to ride out this afternoon.”

Gwaine can’t help but suck in a sharp breath at the impact of that knowledge; his eyes dart to Merlin to see Merlin looking back at him. This time Merlin holds his gaze a few moments longer before looking away, lips pressed tight. Abruptly, his inexplicable upset at Gwaine makes immensely more sense; the hollow feeling is scraped out sharper for a different, desperate reason.

“Sire, if I may,” Leon begins, and Gwaine can barely follow the rest over the ringing in his ears.

After all matters have been addressed, they stand from the table, and Elyan and Percival take turns clasping Gwaine’s wrist, and Lancelot’s, imparting good luck and somewhat sympathetic looks. Merlin slips away through a door to an antechamber, and Gwaine is too trapped by his companions to follow, even if he thought Merlin would want it. Perhaps that’s what last night had been, then—rejection of Gwaine’s attentions as frivolous and unfeasible.

Last of all, Arthur approaches Gwaine. “I have great faith in you, Sir Gwaine,” he says, warm despite the honorific, looking into Gwaine’s eyes intently. One hand clasped around Gwaine’s vambraced wrist, the other hand squeezing chain mail down onto Gwaine’s shoulder, he leans forward to murmur, “Come home safely.” He delivers one last, fierce pat to Gwaine’s shoulder and then he steps away, a moment later dismissing them all.

◊   ◊   ◊

Gwaine has few possessions to gather, no servants to see to, and no rooms to leave unoccupied in his absence. After dressing for travel and seeing to his pack, he can hardly bear to be in the castle a moment longer. Lancelot is absent—Gwaine suspects another fraught farewell with Guinevere—and the castle is buzzing with everyone else’s hastened errands, so Gwaine quietly slips away to the stables.

He can saddle his own horse, after all; even if a retinue of nobles, their servants and guards require _cooks_ to travel with. This much he can take care of himself, though he winds up spending more time stroking Cabrion’s white neck and her soft nose, murmuring quietly to her. No one bothers them in her closed stall, even as hurried footsteps rustle through loose straw and the dull tinkle of buckles on leather straps rings out constantly.

At long last the sounds die down again, the door opening less frequently, chatter of the stablehands notably absent; just the occasional whickering rumble of another steed.

Gwaine’s feet feel as heavy as if they were iron-shod themselves, and his heart as well. He presses his forehead against Cabrion’s shoulder, knowing time is running out, willing himself to lead her out (and out, and out).

Gwaine looks up as the bar on the stall door lifts, and he struggles to pull back on the mask of his composure. It slips away along with his breath when Merlin sidesteps in, and he doesn’t have a chance to catch it again because Merlin’s staring at him intently. Then Merlin is stepping forward and holding Gwaine’s face in his hands.

“You idiot,” Merlin murmurs softly, rich with fondness, and kisses him.

It’s just a fierce, closed press of lips at first, but then Gwaine’s hands find Merlin’s sides and discover Merlin’s chest is heaving with the effort of controlling his breath, so Gwaine clasps him closer, pressing Merlin’s body to his. Merlin’s mouth opens on a helpless noise, and their lips shift and interlock, then Merlin’s tongue skims over Gwaine’s lower lip. Gwaine groans and tilts his head, and any restraint either of them was still feeling is gone, Merlin’s mouth open against his and wet, tongue slick and seeking, his lips firm and mobile.

When they part again they’re both gasping, Merlin’s hands cradling Gwaine’s head and Gwaine not relinquishing his tight hold on Merlin’s body. “Why am I the idiot, then?” Gwaine asks breathlessly, and he must be pouting a little, because Merlin darts in again quickly to press small, eager kisses against his lips, like he can’t resist.

Merlin’s still staring at his mouth when he draws back enough to answer. “Hiding in here, when you should be…” He trails off, and there’s an edge of desperation in his gaze when he meets Gwaine’s eyes again. “Do you know how long I spent looking for you?”

Gwaine remembers in a rush why he’s in the stables in the first place and groans—in regret for Merlin not finding him sooner, in protest of the minuscule amount of time they have left, that they’re parting at _all—_

He presses Merlin back against the high wooden wall and kisses him again, commanding him to stay where Gwaine’s put him with the nip of his teeth and stroke of his tongue. His hands slip down Merlin’s body to pull Merlin’s hips forward against his own, making Merlin moan, his hands flexing against Gwaine’s neck. Merlin presses hard against him for a brief, exhilarating moment, then his hands tighten in Gwaine’s hair until Gwaine’s forced to break the kiss.

“You—” Merlin says, mouth red and wet and open, so kissable. “I’m sorry.” He pushes Gwaine back, hands stroking through Gwaine’s hair, and a helpless, humourless laugh escapes him. “Really, you don’t know how much.”

Gwaine pulls him forward, into an embrace this time, and Merlin clings to him, pressing his face against Gwaine’s neck. Gwaine breathes in the warm scent of his hair and struggles to swallow down his own desperate misery—mingled bittersweetly with the leaping joy at having Merlin in his arms at last—until Merlin sniffs one last time and pulls away. “It’s time.”

They lead Cabrion into the stable yard, the small, closed space likewise bereft of people, and once Merlin has spent a few moments checking all the straps and buckles, he helps Gwaine up into the saddle. Then he stops again, presses his forehead against Gwaine’s thigh, shoulders heaving as he breathes deeply. Gwaine strokes his fingers through Merlin’s hair, the emotion lodged in his throat harder to swallow with the feel of the fine, arched tendons of Merlin’s neck between his fingers, finally touching as freely as he’s wanted to for weeks.

“Wait,” he says when Merlin goes to straighten again, and Gwaine unknots the faded blue scarf and tugs it carefully from Merlin’s throat. He presses it to his face to breathe in its scent, and when Merlin looks questioningly up at him, he says more lightly than he feels, “A token from my beloved.”

The endearment could perhaps be considered a little too forward to be entirely chivalrous, for all that Gwaine’s voice is hoarse with his sincerity. But then again, he can’t help but feel he’s been catapulted into a different measure of propriety entirely, what with Merlin’s taste in his mouth, and Merlin’s tears on his neck. There’s surely no harm in channelling Lancelot, though; Gwaine dips his head in deference before tucking the scarf beneath his collar, settling it against his breast.

Merlin gives a choked laugh, making Gwaine feel both relieved and painfully empathetic, and wipes his eyes before taking a deep breath and leading them on. Before he steps forward to open the gate that will take them beyond the stark privacy of the yard, Merlin seizes Gwaine’s hand and kisses it one last time, ardent, making Gwaine’s heart tighten in his chest.

The rest of the party are already waiting in the square when they arrive, and Merlin slips through the crowd as Gwaine subtly joins the back of the retinue. Arthur is standing at the top of the steps, and Gwaine barely hears the formal farewell that follows, though it is admirably short considering the amount of political posturing that it no doubt needs to include. Instead, Gwaine’s gaze is fixed on Merlin, lower on the steps and to the side, as still as the poised, guarding statue he’s next to. With his neck bared he emanates a vulnerability that stabs Gwaine with almost physical pain, and he can barely breathe; he wills Merlin to raise his head to meet his gaze. Merlin doesn’t, though, not until Arthur’s speech comes to an end, and then he looks up and directly at Gwaine, eyes bright.

The retinue is moving between them, shuffling and turning the horses around, and Gwaine’s heart is pounding like he’s about to gallop into battle. He keeps his eyes on Merlin for as long as possible before he has to turn and ride on.

The attention of the onlookers as they move slowly through the town drags against Gwaine like he’s forcing through brambles, and when they finally get out into open country he sucks in breaths so deep he feels dizzy, then digs his heels into Cabrion’s sides and spurs ahead.

He’s not sure how long he’s been riding when he becomes aware that there’s someone following him; the sharp clip of another horse’s hooves and a high, clear voice calling out, “Sir! Sir!” until Gwaine slows to a trot and turns around. His face feels numb and eyes tender from the chilly push of the wind, and he blinks back at the party trundling along in the distance, and the boy riding at his shoulder.

“Sir Gwaine,” the boy says, breathless and relieved, and he half-bows in the saddle. He can’t be older than fifteen, face smooth and still with a childish curve of softness to it, his eyes anxious when he meets Gwaine’s gaze.

“Who are you?” Gwaine croaks.

“My name is Gareth, Sir.” The boy brings his horse forward to trot closer alongside Gwaine’s. “I’m to be your squire.”


	2. Part Two

As spare as their party is—and with more soldiers than civilians in attendance—it still takes more than twice as long to reach Cenred’s castle than if they were merely a few on horseback.

The time for Gwaine seems to pass oddly anyway—even a year ago he wouldn’t have thought that being on the road again would feel like anything less than home, but the vibrant spring growth that decorates their passage contrasts starkly the bleakness in his heart. It feels as if years have passed since they left Camelot, but the city seems so close at Gwaine’s back that he’s half-convinced he could simply turn and see it on the horizon. He tries not to think of Merlin too much, lest his hands turn the reins of their own volition.

Lancelot seems to match his sombreness in mood, though he spends more time conversing with the soldiers and servants of an evening, while Gwaine sits by the fire and drinks from his wineskin.

The skin only lasts the first night and a half. The first night he’s too heartsick to properly eat, let alone keep down the thick, bloodied taste of travelling wine. The second night he finishes it, and acquires a fresh skin from Sir—or should that be _Lord_ —Ector’s supply cart.

On the third morning Gareth wakes him up with an excessively loud clanging of weaponry in his tent; Gwaine’s feelings towards the boy—which have barely formed beyond denial of his existence, at this point—take on some grudging respect when he responds to Gwaine’s murderous glare with a look that’s more mulish than startled rabbit.

The third evening his new wineskin is mysteriously missing, so he acquires another, and makes Gareth sleep outside. Both of which may or may not have something to do with the dignified but unmistakable dressing-down Kay gives him the next morning.

Absorbed in his own misery and hangover as they ride, it takes Gwaine a while to realise that Lancelot’s riding at his side, instead of his usual haunt at the back of their party. Gwaine meets his eyes blearily, and Lancelot’s mouth twists in sympathy.

“You can’t avoid him forever, you know,” Lancelot says, and Gwaine is struck dumb for long moments until he realises exactly who Lancelot is speaking of (and of whom he most certainly isn’t).

“He’s my squire,” Gwaine says, petulant. “I can do what I want with him.”

“Fortunately, that’s not true,” Lancelot says drily. “Take pity on the boy.” He nudges his horse closer, close enough that his knee bumps into Gwaine’s thigh as they ride. “He probably just wants to fight and have adventures, can you fault him that?”

Gwaine frowns at him. “What’s he doing polishing my chain mail, then?”

Lancelot gives him a look like he expects better. Gwaine can’t find it in himself to care. Much.

“That’s how you go about it.” Lancelot’s voice takes on a dreamy warmth that he probably learned from Merlin talking about the future king of Camelot. “Knighthood, I mean.”

Gwaine eyes Lancelot up and down pointedly. “Clearly.”

Lancelot purses his lips. “If nothing else, don’t get on the wrong side of the person who’s making sure your balls are protected in a sword fight,” he says stiffly, and spurs his horse ahead without further comment.

Gwaine blinks after him, shocked enough by the uncharacteristic vulgarity that he almost laughs. Maybe, _maybe_ Lancelot has a point. Though Gwaine’s balls have survived many years without a squire on hand, thank you very much.

The fourth night he nurses his wineskin rather than emptying it as fast as possible, and the slow draining of it leaves him soaked in melancholy. Merlin’s scarf, carefully folded now, is still tucked away against his skin, and he teeters between the desire to take it out and muse on it—while it still holds the scent of Merlin’s throat, at the very least—and knowing that doing so openly would be folly.

Gareth sits nearby in silence, but for the soft _shwick, shwick_ of him sharpening Gwaine’s sword. Gwaine doesn’t notice when it stops, until Gareth says, “Are you all right, Sir?”

Gwaine turns to him and blinks in bleary confusion.

“Are you in pain?” Gareth gestures with his whetstone, and Gwaine looks down at his own chest: he’s clutching at Merlin’s scarf through his clothing.

“What?” Gwaine says, flattening his hand and smoothing it down his chest.  

Gareth offers him a wary, tight-lipped smile, and Gwaine offers him the wineskin.

Gareth looks at it. “No, thank you,” he says, and lowers his head to his work again, expression troubled.

Gwaine contemplates him in silence for long moments. The fire crackles, someone in a tent nearby snores loudly, and Gareth doesn’t acknowledge his scrutiny.

“Why are you a squire, then?” Gwaine drawls at length.

“My father,” Gareth begins, and Gwaine doesn’t even really realise he’s rolled his eyes and taken another pull on the wineskin until Gareth begins again, more determinedly. “ _My father_ was a knight of Camelot, many years ago. He had retired by the time I was born.” _Shwick, shwick_ goes the whetstone. “He died when I was a child, and my mother pledged my services to Camelot, to commence when I came of age.”

“You had no choice in it, then,” Gwaine says flatly.

“No, no, I _want_ to be here,” Gareth stresses, the steady motion of his sharpening ceasing. He bites his lip, staring into the fire. “I am happy to serve my king.”

“Lancelot says you just want to fight and have adventures.”

Gareth doesn’t respond, though he’s clearly listening, his face intent in the flickering firelight. When he still doesn’t speak, Gwaine looks away.

“Why are _you_ a knight, then?” Gareth says abruptly, parroting Gwaine’s words back at him with a bit more acidity than flippancy. “Sir,” he belatedly adds on the end.

Unsurprisingly, Gwaine feels himself softening towards the boy at the edging-toward-blatant back-talk, and he can’t help but smirk. “Fighting,” he says shortly, taking another mouthful of wine. “Adventure.”

Gareth looks at him again, and his smile this time—while still hesitant—exhibits some genuine camaraderie. Gwaine offers him the wineskin again.

“No,” Gareth sighs. “Though I will help you to bed.”

Clearly the days of riding are catching up with him: as soon as Gwaine stands up he stumbles, his body expecting the rhythmic lilt of being on horseback, and Gareth ducks to tuck his shoulders under one of Gwaine’s flailing arms.

Their positions as they stumble towards Gwaine’s tent recall another time, but Gareth is not Merlin by a long stretch—not lean enough, not tall enough, not laughing and certainly not squeezing Gwaine’s waist or unloading him into his own bed. Not that Gwaine wants that of Gareth.

“I don’t need a caretaker,” he mumbles as Gareth ducks them into the tent. Speaking of which, Gwaine doesn’t need a tent either, or half the things that seem to have turned up in it.

“Of course not, Sir,” Gareth says, huffing as he lowers Gwaine to his bedroll.

As Gareth rises again, Gwaine grabs for him, and the boy stumbles, catching himself on his braced hand as Gwaine nearly pulls him to the ground. His eyes are wide and startled, arm tense in Gwaine’s grip.

“Don’t take my wine,” Gwaine orders.

Gareth shakes him off and straightens. “I’m not,” he says. “Just holding on to it, for safekeeping.” He leaves the tent.

Gwaine grumbles in response, and wriggles his toes in his boots, which are most decidedly still on. Useless bloody squires.

◊   ◊   ◊

They cross over into Escetia without challenge or fanfare, but it’s not until they reach the first village within its borders that Gwaine begins to feel a distinct sense of unease. The few farms they’d passed on its outskirts were eerily deserted—lacking not just people, but livestock also—and Kay stops them when the village itself comes into sight. He arranges their soldiers to guard the rest of the party and leaves Lancelot to wait with them; Gwaine accompanies Kay onward on horseback, one hand on the reins and one on the pommel of his sword.

There are no signs of life in the village, though it can’t have been unoccupied for very long. They ride through the main road, keeping a keen eye out for any suggestion of a threat, but the houses just gape at them emptily, most of the doors knocked open, the debris of neglect creeping within. One of the big houses towards the centre of town has a charred, blackened roof, and axe marks around the door frame.

Kay reins his horse in near it, and casts an uneasy glance around before meeting Gwaine’s gaze. “We should keep moving,” he says soberly.

They lead the party around the village rather than through it, and before they reach the main road again they pass a circle of oaks amidst an outlying field. Through the trees Gwaine can see the distinctive mounds of fresh graves, and counts at least eight before urging Cabrion onward.

It’s as they’re due to stop for their mid-afternoon meal that they finally see someone else on the road; in the distance a figure walking towards them stops, then turns and pelts back in the opposite direction, tiny puffs of dust drifting sluggishly in the golden sunlight. At the next bend in the road they see smoke rising, a column small enough that it’s probably coming from a chimney, but its source is obscured by another copse of trees.

Kay calls them to a halt again. “Lancelot, Gwaine,” he beckons, and draws them aside. “The town of Achelon lies ahead. Judging from what we’ve seen of Escetia so far, they may not take well to an armed contingent marching through their streets. And,” he lowers his voice, and they step in closer to hear him, “we are not here to invade, but to bring them under Camelot’s protection. I will remain here with the rest of the party, you two are to go ahead and make peace.” He gives Gwaine a particularly stern look, and Gwaine automatically feels affronted. “ _Don’t_ make trouble. And take Gareth with you.”

Gwaine opens his mouth to protest, and then shuts it as Kay turns the look on him again. “He’s still a boy,” Kay says firmly. “It would do well for them to see that we do not intend to threaten them.”

Gareth looks mildly terrified when Gwaine fetches him, lips white and knees clenching tightly to his saddle as the three of them begin to ride onward toward the town.

“Have you been in a fight before?” Gwaine asks, keeping his tone deliberately relaxed.

Gareth shakes his head shortly.

Lancelot looks back at him. “Gwaine and I have fought many times; I don’t think today will be your turn.”

Gareth nods back, but doesn’t seem to relax a whit.

“Just stay behind me,” Gwaine reassures, and can’t help but add, “You can watch how it’s done.”

Gareth snorts shortly, and Gwaine turns forward again and grins.

When the town comes into view so too do more people; more than a dozen peasants standing in the road some distance ahead of them, brandishing farming tools adapted as weaponry. Gwaine resists the urge to rest his hand on his own weapon, exchanging a concerned glance with Lancelot as they continue their steady pace onward.

When they’re close enough to dismount and continue on foot, Gwaine can make out more of the guards; to his surprise at least half of them are women, unmistakable despite their shirts and trousers, hair bound tightly and expressions stony. There are a few boys amongst them too, but they’re barely older than Gareth, if that. When they pass some invisible boundary with several paces left between them, one of the women steps forward, brandishing an axe impressively, muscles corded under the tanned skin of her bare forearms.

“Halt,” she calls out. “What business do knights of Camelot have with Achelon?”

They stop as ordered, and Lancelot sketches a half-bow before he responds. “I am Lancelot of Camelot, and these are my travelling companions, Gwaine of Caerleon and Gareth, also of Camelot. We accompany a party sent by King Uther and Prince Arthur to make peace with Escetia.”

While Gwaine understands why Lancelot names his birth kingdom and not his allegiance, it still makes his jaw clench; he pushes down bitterness to focus on the task at hand.

The axe woman doesn’t lower her weapon. “Why should we believe you, when so many others have crossed into our borders to rob and despoil us?”

Gwaine steps forward. “Madam,” he begins, unsure of how else to address her and deciding to go with the most respectful he can get away with without seeming facetious, “I have travelled far within Escetia, and always found her people to be strong-hearted and welcoming, if at times neglected by a distant king.” He feels Lancelot tense beside him, and his own heart races at the precipice he’s teetering on. “I have no other wish than to see Achelon and its neighbours brought under the just protection of Camelot.”

The woman scrutinises them for long, tense moments. “And how comes it that Gwaine of Caerleon, well-travelled in Escetia, now rides as a knight of Camelot?”

Gwaine dips his head in acknowledgement of her point. “It is as you say; I am indeed well-travelled in lands even beyond Escetia. But it was not until I came to know the lords of Camelot that I chose to give my fealty. When I travel now, it is to share what Camelot affords me with the people whose lands have welcomed me in the past.”

She squints at him for a moment longer, then nods shortly in satisfaction with his answer, finally lowering her axe a little. “You will relinquish your weapons should you wish to enter our town,” she says.

“We are most grateful for your hospitality,” Lancelot says, bowing again. “If you will allow me a moment to confer with my companions…”

He turns a little away from their observers, gesturing Gwaine and Gareth to move in closer to him. “I should go back to Kay, let him know we haven’t been skewered by pitchforks, before he sends an army in.”

Personally, Gwaine doubts that Kay would do any such thing, but now’s not the time to gossip with Lancelot about it, especially not with Gareth still wide-eyed and tense beside him.

Lancelot looks at Gwaine’s sword pointedly. “You should take that off.”

“What! Me?” Gwaine hisses reflexively.  

Gareth looks uneasily over his shoulder at the townsfolk—weapons lowered, but still definitely held at the ready—and reaches for Gwaine’s buckles.

Gwaine slaps his hands away. “I _can_ do this myself,” he mutters sullenly, smiling tightly and nodding at the axe woman as he catches her eye again.

“I won’t be long,” Lancelot says, clapping him on the shoulder. “Madam,” he says louder, turning back to the woman. “With your leave, I will return to the rest of our party and inform them of our parley.”

She nods curtly, and Gwaine doesn’t miss that Gareth stares after Lancelot as he rides at a neat clip back in the direction they came, cloak flowing behind him.

“I am Amelia,” the woman says once Gwaine has handed over his sword—and Gareth a dagger from his boot, which Gwaine is definitely going to have to talk to him about later. Amelia’s grasp on Gwaine’s wrist is fierce. “If you attempt to harm my people, I will behead you.”

Gwaine shrugs, returning her grip just as strongly. “Very well,” he says, easy tone not giving away his tightly-held tension.

Amelia leads them into town with an escort of her guards. The town itself is not so different from the one they passed through earlier; a collection of well-lived-in buildings that grow in size and sturdiness the closer they get to the centre. It’s also large enough to have a tavern, standing proudly on the town’s single, bisecting road. They have to pick through deep cuts of wheel ruts as they make their way towards it, scored into the road when it was winter mud and now dried into hard ridges.

The ground throughout the town seems too hard-packed to grow anything, though some of the thatching on the roofs sprouts growth that Gwaine is surprised hasn’t been culled. Though by whom, is his next thought—Achelon’s inhabitants are absent, or at least keeping indoors: he gets only an occasional glimpse of a particularly bold observer, peering through a cracked-open door or window. As with the guards around him, most of them seem to be women and children, though he does see an old man standing in the open, watching them with an expression of distaste as they pass.

“We’re the easternmost town on the travellers’ route into Escetia,” Amelia explains when they stop beneath the tavern’s hanging sign, proclaiming it _The Golden Rooster_. Amelia speaks lowly to her guards, and then most of them peel off—some to take Gareth and Gwaine’s horses to the tavern’s stables—leaving just a few women to accompany them inside.

The interior is identical to any number of taverns Gwaine has visited: the sweet rankness of hops and half-rotten straw hangs in the air, and the light is murky with the torches unlit, walls black with soot above them. Still, Gwaine can see that every surface is stained dark and rubbed smooth through countless patrons spilling their drink and slouching drunkenly; he’s sure that even with the early hour, this tavern ought to be bustling with activity. But the front room lacks the expected crowd of brash men getting noisily into their cups. Only a few old men huddle around a table off to the side—they look over as their party enters, and one stands abruptly and barks, “Amelia!”

“Marian will get you something to wet your throat,” Amelia says to Gwaine, nodding towards the bar and the woman behind it, before walking over to confer in low tones with the group of men.

The barmaid is somewhat more amiable than any of the women they’ve encountered so far, and Gwaine’s grin becomes a little more natural as her gaze drifts down before returning to his eyes. She matches his smirk with one of her own. “You’ve travelled far, Sir Knight,” she observes, leaning forward to pour two tankards.

Gwaine rests his foot on the runner bar, knee crooked up, and braces an elbow on the bar top. “Yet I cannot say it hasn’t been worth it,” he returns, and takes a swig of the ale. Beside him, Gareth is frowning into his cup, and Gwaine nudges his side surreptitiously. Gareth takes a wary sip, then pulls a face.

Gwaine shares an amused glance with the barmaid—Marian. His gaze drifts over her as hers had done to him; the neck of her dress sweeps low, a leather cord strung round her neck cutting a deep vee pointing downward. She smirks again when his appreciative gaze returns to her face, and her skirt swishes when she turns away to see to something at the other end of the bar.

“Sir, it may be wise not to indulge…” Gareth suggests lowly when she’s out of hearing, eyes flitting away from Marian and back to Gwaine’s cup.

Gwaine washes back his scowl with another, longer draught, sighing with deep satisfaction after swallowing.

“We are proud of our local brew.”

Gwaine turns from the bar; Amelia is behind them, hefting a tankard of her own. She leads them to an empty table—far from the group of suspiciously-glaring men, Gwaine notes—and the three of them settle around it. The guardswomen stand by the door, observing silently.

“Tell me of the rest of your party,” Amelia instructs without preamble.

Gwaine lifts his cup again, considering as he drinks. “I propose an exchange,” he says boldly instead of answering directly. “I will tell you of my people, if you tell me of yours.”

Amelia’s eyes narrow, and Gwaine prays he hasn’t gone too far as she stares at him for long moments.

“Very well,” she says, “within reason. Tell me of the rest of your party.”

Well, that decides who’s going first, then. Aware of Gareth’s suppressed fidgeting beside him, Gwaine begins. “As well as Lancelot and myself, we travel with another knight of Camelot, and a Lord and his retinue. We have a small contingent of guardsmen to protect the party.”

Amelia nods; Gwaine suspects he’s not telling her much more than she already knows.

“What is your purpose in Escetia?”

Gwaine smiles wryly. “I’m afraid it’s my turn. How did you come to lead this village?”

Amelia has the stony gaze perfected; for a moment Gwaine frivolously imagines what might occur should her unimpressed visage come face to face with Arthur’s.

“Our previous leader went to war and never returned. What is your purpose in Escetia?”

“To establish peace.”

“And you plan on doing so with twenty soldiers, three knights and a gaggle of servants?”

The conversation is going a little less smoothly than Gwaine had hoped, the rapport he’d fancied they’d warily established outside the village proving an unsteady foundation.

“Tell us about your husband.” It’s Gareth who speaks up, voice soft amidst their growing antagonism, and Gwaine and Amelia both turn to him in surprise.

Amelia’s hardened expression shifts into an overt frown, and Gareth’s mouth twists in quiet sympathy. Amelia breathes deeply, as if fortifying herself, and turns back to Gwaine, her stare combative.

“He was a traveller from Mercia who stopped here eight years ago on his way to the city. Though he never felt any more loyalty to the king than any of us here in the border towns, he took up the offer of the king’s men to fight under the protection of his sorceress.” Her hands grip tightly around the tankard, but she doesn’t take another drink. “They were promised immunity from all harm, and a share in the wealth of the new kingdom to be formed.” Her gaze shifts to Gareth, and becomes less aggressive only through its growing distance. “Those who refused the offer were not given such generous options.”

Gwaine had suspected—within a few moments of realising who they were facing as they approached the village—but now his understanding coalesces. He recalls, not for the first time, the teeming mass of Escetian soldiers that had overrun Camelot, and while his thoughts had lingered on the horrific nature of their enchantment, the memory of their obliteration now settles like a cold stone at the pit of his chest.

“You fought in that war,” Amelia says, not a question, her voice tight. “What is your purpose here in Escetia?”

“I did fight,” Gwaine admits. “Defending Camelot from destruction at the hands of an army forged by sorcery.”

“And did you destroy them?” Amelia asks, the tightness twisted up now, her voice strained and fierce. “Why do you come here to speak of peace, unless your peace means destroying the rest of us as well?”

She draws back and swallows hard, but doesn’t look away; Gwaine breaks her stare first, looking down at the murky surface of his ale. He almost wishes for Gareth to speak again, to pick at the knot of Amelia’s grief and anger as he had her aggression.

“You granted us entry to your village,” Gwaine says carefully at length. “Why?”

Amelia gives a choked laugh and shakes her head. “Because I do wish for peace,” she says. “And those now governing my kingdom have sent no one to reassure us of their protection, or to tell us tales of the slaughter of our men at the hands of the Pendragon king.” She breathes deeply. “Instead, we have been visited by scavengers and bandits, from outside the borders and within, seeking to exploit the weakness of our people. There is no all-powerful sorceress to give us immunity from harm, even if she had been able to grant it to our husbands and sons.”

“I’m sorry, Amelia,” Gwaine begins, but Amelia cuts him off with another harsh bark of laughter.

“Do not pity me, Sir Gwaine. This town is the remnants of five other surrounding, women and children who have had to abandon their homes, whose families have been maimed by this war. We don’t care for your kind words. All I want from you is an assurance of peace, and, bar a disgruntled few—” Her head tips toward the group of men on the other side of the room. “—this is true of all my people.”

“You have my word,” Gwaine says solemnly; he wants to rest his hand on his sword, or on her shoulder, but instead places them both palm-down on the table. “I swear to you, your people will find peace under Camelot’s rule.”

Even as he speaks the words they grit in his mouth. Though his belief in Arthur’s worthiness is profound, Gwaine’s distrust of Uther goes as far in the opposite direction. He wants to believe that by the time Amelia feels the effects of Camelot’s rule, it’ll be all due to Arthur—the Prince was practically ruling before they had even set out, after all—but Gwaine is only lately of Camelot. The knowledge in Amelia’s eyes reflects the same stories he’s heard over and over. Of course, living in a town on a travelling route, she would be well aware of the picture painted of Camelot: a prosperous land, but a blessed existence only for those fortunate enough to escape the ruthlessness of its king.

Even in _The Golden Rooster_ there are charms nailed above the door; Marian wears a talisman tucked into her bosom. The taverns of Camelot instead held the tension of suspicion—of strangers in particular—and a sick kind of anticipation. On the rare occasions he’d travelled through Camelot, Gwaine had dealt with the animosity as he best dealt with anything—with heavy drinking.

“I accept your word, Sir Gwaine,” Amelia says, though she shares the look of sad hopefulness that Gwaine fears is on his own face. “Though I warn you; if you break it, I _will_ be forced to behead you.”

Gwaine shrugs widely, grateful for the break in mood. “Seems perfectly reasonable. Don’t you think, Gareth?”

Gareth looks particularly miserable at the prospect, or perhaps at the conversation—both spoken and unspoken—in general. “Yes, Sir,” he says bleakly, and grimaces as he takes another mouthful of ale.

◊   ◊   ◊

The villages and towns they journey through beyond Achelon have similar stories to tell—either in their abandoned, sometimes destroyed emptiness; or in the small bastions of women, boys and old men that still occupy them. In one town, the barmaid recognises Gwaine, and after laughing herself silly at the sight of his sweeping red cloak and gold dragon insignia, makes him pay his tab before she’ll share any information.

The dominant tale is of men lost and a country bereft of leadership. Once, a party of women and boys runs them off before they can enter a village, but otherwise they encounter little aggression. Gwaine suspects that the much spoken-of marauders are more opportunistic than anything else, and towns lacking male protection are easier targets than a squad of armed soldiers and three knights on horseback.

It bodes well for their task in the city, though: it shows the people of Escetia the value of Camelot’s presence, and suggests a court too disorganised to counter what would have been taken as an invasion a few months before, small though their party is.

The closer to the city they get, the more unsettling the absence of challenge becomes. After a day on horseback with his eyes scanning each hillock and tree for ambush, hand on his sword, Gwaine is too weary to drink but too tense to sleep.

Instead he makes Gareth spar with him. The boy is clumsy at first, and his muscles still youthful and underdeveloped—which Gwaine boggles at, if he’s honest, given how Gareth hoists armour about. But once they switch out Lancelot’s borrowed sword for a short sword from the guardsmen’s armoury, he adapts to Gwaine’s tuition rapidly.

Lancelot himself looks on, speaking only to point out every so often to Gareth when Gwaine is demonstrating a technique _not_ generally taught as part of the knight’s fighting code. It grates a little—they are tricks that have kept Gwaine alive, more often than not, which is more than he can say for courtly language and blind submission in the name of _manners_.

The irritation lingers—the more so from the way Gareth had seemed to hang on Lancelot’s every word. It simmers on the surface of Gwaine’s mind even as he settles down to sleep that night.

Gareth is quiet in the tent with him—perhaps as exhausted, or sensing Gwaine’s moodiness—and ignores Gwaine’s dour stare as he removes his boots and makes sure their weapons are at hand.

“Why didn’t you learn any swordsmanship before you came to the city?” Gwaine asks at length, watching the bowed back of Gareth’s head—tousle of fine brown hair and the corded nape of his neck below—the delicateness painting a picture of boyish vulnerability.

“My father was dead,” Gareth says shortly, and before Gwaine can open his mouth to further question why _that_ should make a difference, Gareth continues—“Did your father teach you?”

Gwaine scowls, the itching resentment of Lancelot’s blithe, shrouded criticism mingling with the recollections that rise at Gareth’s question.

“He did not. My mother’s brother gave me my first sword.” Gwaine makes himself sprawl out where he’s lying on his back, tucking his hands behind his head and forcing a projection of nonchalance. “I learned all those other useful tricks when I was on the road.”

 _On the road_ is perhaps the most romantic way to describe his nomadic lifestyle once he left his uncle’s house; _drifting_ would be more accurate.

“That dagger you keep in your boot,” Gwaine says, “do you know how to use that?”

Gareth tenses, his movements stiff as he finishes setting his pack to rights and lies down, as far from Gwaine as he can get in the tent. “If it comes to it,” he says shortly.

Gwaine rolls over to look at him, not letting him escape the conversation. “You should not give it away so freely. It usually _comes to it_ when you’ve no other way to escape, that’s why you keep it in your damn _boot_ instead of decorating your belt.”

Gareth seems startled by Gwaine’s vehemency, darting a look at Gwaine before turning quickly back to stare at the roof of the tent. “We had come to an agreement with those people. It would have been going against our word to withhold it from them.”

“You would rather die when they break _their_ word, then? And breathe your last peacefully, knowing your death is a noble one?”

Gareth frowns and doesn’t answer.

“Keeping it hidden would have left them none the wiser, when they meant us no harm. Your word is in choosing not to use it, not in blindly following the rules as if you’ve no free will of your own.” Gwaine lies back and pulls his cloak up over his shoulders. “And if you do truly wish to _serve your king_ , then you’d best live long enough to be of use to him. Better an impure knight, than one dead and purely noble.”

Gareth draws in a breath as if to speak, but his silence lasts long enough that Gwaine’s given up waiting for him when he finally voices his question. “Why are you a knight, then?”

It’s less caustic than the first time Gareth had asked him; he sounds genuinely curious this time, as if he can’t reconcile Gwaine’s scorn of nobility with his determination to occupy the role he’s been given.

To be honest, Gwaine’s struggling to reconcile it himself. But, more than Arthur’s crest on his cloak is Merlin’s scarf against his breast. _Come home safely,_ Arthur had said, and Merlin had kissed his hand; Gwaine rolls away and turns his back to Gareth, rustling his bedding about to mask the reaching up under his clothing to find the scarf by touch. It’s soft and warm, its weave thin between the rub of his thumb and forefinger.

Belatedly, he realises he hasn’t given Gareth an answer, but by then he’s too close to sleep to care.

◊   ◊   ◊

They’re less than a day’s ride away from the city when they finally see another man on the road—more than one, actually; a group of five of them, riding very definitely towards them, bright cloaks flashing amidst the craggy landscape.

“Very well,” Kay mutters to himself, then shouts orders to get the soldiers in position around the civilians of their party. The men riding towards them are armed with swords at their belts and shields on their arms, the cloaks flowing behind them dyed a vibrant, burnt ochre. Lancelot and Gwaine flank Kay as they three ride down to meet them, hooves kicking up shale, their swords drawn.

Both parties slow as they approach, the ochre knights reining in their horses strongly enough that the steeds jerk at their bits, prancing sideways.

“Knights of Camelot,” the one in the lead calls to them—the oldest of the lot, it seems; there’s a pair who barely seem older than Gareth. They all share the same length of face and delicate brows. Brothers, Gwaine surmises, led by their father. “I beg you, put away your weapons. We seek only to speak with you.”

Gwaine represses a snort of disbelief and doesn’t sheathe his sword; neither do Kay or Lancelot.

“You will forgive us our reluctance,” Kay calls in return, “when you come to us fully armed, and at considerable speed.”

The other knight bows his head in acknowledgement, and when he speaks, his voice continues to hold a note of anxiousness. “Forgive me, Sir, but you may have noticed travelling through Escetia that sons have become something of a rarity. I fear that preparing for the worst has become an unfortunate necessity.”

“The lives of sons have always been precious in Camelot,” Kay says cuttingly.

The knight bows his head lower. “Please,” he says, “let us start afresh. I am Lord Maris of Escetia, and these are my sons. We have ridden hence to welcome you.” Lord Maris dismounts, and subsequently unbuckles his sword belt, affixing it to his saddle before taking a few hesitant paces forward.

Kay sheathes his blade, and Gwaine exchanges a wary glance with Lancelot behind his back before doing the same.

“I am Sir Kay, and these are Sir Gwaine and Sir Lancelot.” Kay dismounts as well, though he doesn’t remove his sword belt. He steps a few paces forward to grasp Maris’ wrist in brief, but firm greeting.

Maris glances toward Gwaine and Lancelot before looking back at Kay. “We have heard of your progress through Escetia.”

“Then you know our purpose,” Kay says bluntly.

Maris nods. “And ride forth to assure you that much of the court welcomes it. We only wish to prevent more bloodshed.”

Kay dips his head in acknowledgement. “If you are speaking honestly, then it’s best you continue this conversation with Lord Ector.” He eyes the still-mounted men behind Maris. “I must ask for your weapons. I assure you that no harm will come to your sons, so long as they continue to present no threat to those of our party.”

Though Maris does not seem particularly pleased with these conditions—his mouth and brow tighten with worry—he acquiesces, and his sons dismount and unbuckle their belts. The brisk clop of hooves behind them makes Gwaine tense and Maris look up in alarm; but it’s only Gareth reining in to a halt beside Gwaine, eyes wide and jaw tense with determination.

Gwaine gives him a sharp look that Gareth ignores, instead dismounting to claim the ochre knights’ weapons. He doesn’t seem to have the courage to look the men in the eye as he does so, despite being ballsy enough to disregard Gwaine’s instruction to stay with the soldiers.

The Escetians remain on their feet as Kay leads them back to the waiting party, Lancelot, Gwaine and Gareth bringing up the rear on horseback, keeping a watch over the men in front of them.

“You disobeyed me,” Gwaine says to Gareth in a low tone, not turning away from the ochre cloaks and the movement of hidden hands below.

“They were removing their weapons,” Gareth returns, just as quietly. “I could see there was no danger. Besides, who else was going to take them? You need your hands free for fighting.”

Gwaine grinds his teeth. “Growing up in your mother’s household taught you well to disregard authority, I see,” he grits out, and hears Gareth’s sharp intake of breath.

“Gwaine—” Lancelot begins, and Gwaine can’t interpret his pacifying tone as anything but condescension. It feels like proof of Lancelot’s disappointment when Gwaine looks away from the potential threat ahead to shoot him a venomous look, but he can’t stop himself.

They ride on in silence, and even at a walking pace it doesn’t take long to reach the rest of their party. Kay speaks to Ector and within a few moments, servants have set out a pair of travelling chairs facing each other on one of the few patches of even ground. Maris seats himself gratefully, Ector with a more guarded demeanour opposite, and the respective knights stand guard behind their lords. Gareth retreats out of sight, at least having the sense to take the other knights’ weapons out of immediate reach.

“My Lord,” Maris begins, “it is with great sincerity that I welcome you to Escetia, and hope you can forgive the abrupt nature of our meeting in this crude setting.”

Gwaine doubts that Ector—veteran of Uther’s campaigns and imbued with a pragmatic, salt-of-the-earth personality through and through—is overly bothered by the crudeness of the setting. In fact he’s probably as glad as Gwaine is that their first encounter with Escetia’s court is occurring on a well-trod road cut roughly through the sparse, hilly landscape; at least there are no more nobles loitering with daggers in their sleeves on the sidelines.

“I gratefully accept your welcome, but would hear the meaning behind this unanticipated meeting,” Ector says bluntly.

Lord Maris nods in acknowledgment. “As you know, King Cenred is dead, killed by the sorceress Morgause not two months past. That altercation was the conclusion to a long influence she held over him, which, from the beginning, cast our court into chaos.” Maris pauses, watching for Ector’s response closely as he continues. “As it has been proven time and again, sorcery is an evil influence; although many of us tried to warn the King of the danger he was courting, at the witch’s behest he instead cast us out.”

Ector nods briefly in acceptance of the blatant pandering to Uther’s cruellest—and most fear-inducing—ruling, and Gwaine feels a little ill.

“Though some of us stayed in the city in an attempt to uphold the stable rule of Escetia, upon the call for soldiers to fight in the King’s enchanted army, most fled to our estates to preserve our own people, their sons and fathers.”

“Judging from the dearth of young men in your kingdom, few of you seem to have succeeded,” Ector says drily, looking pointedly up at Maris’ sons.

“We had little time to prepare, my Lord,” Maris says regretfully, “and have been since occupied with ensuring the throne has not been taken by those opportunistic enough to seize it by force, with no heir apparent.”

“Cenred had a son, did he not?” Ector asks, as if news of the child’s first breath had not been delivered via Uther’s spy, months ago.

“Just an infant, my Lord,” Maris says. “A bastard. Murdered.”

“And I suppose those such as yourself took no part in this fight for the throne.”

Maris is silent for a moment; Gwaine can see his throat move as he swallows. “We are in agreement that King Uther is the rightful claimant of Escetia’s throne, given his defeat of our army,” he hedges. “But there remain a few members of the former king’s court that do not recognise such victories. Thus our riding out to speak with you—to assure you of our loyalty, and avoid any rush into combat that does not discriminate between those of us that seek to support you, and those that seek to supplant.”

Ector scrutinises Maris for long moments. “Very well,” he says at length. “To prove your loyalty, you and your sons will accompany us to the castle, unarmed.”

Maris’ lips press tightly. “My Lord, I also seek to warn you that your entry in the city may not go unchallenged. Should my sons be unable to protect themselves—”

Ector’s sharp gaze shifts to Maris’ sons. “Your two youngest. They will remain unarmed, and walk with our soldiers. We are outnumbered in a foreign land. I’m sure you understand the need to ensure our own safety as well.”

Maris’ reluctance is clear in the downturn of his mouth and unsteady gaze, but after a moments’ pause, he accedes. “Of course, it is as my Lord wishes,” he murmurs.

◊   ◊   ◊

The city rises out of the rock amidst a grey, choppy sea, the low tide widening the spit of land that prevents it from being an island. Its stone is dim and damp in the wet sea air, and the silhouette of its towers uneven, as if the top half of the castle has been snapped off and left craggy—a forceful contrast to Camelot’s rounded stone and pale glow. Maris and Ector ride at the head of the party as they make their way through the sparse lower town between the outer wall of the citadel and the castle. The only noise once they’re out of the deafening bluster of the sea wind is the creak of their wagon wheels, the clip of hooves and steady tromp of the soldier’s march. The town has more signs of habitation than many they’ve passed through—horse shit in the road ahead of them, laundered clothes drying on twine strung out of windows, plump cats feeding on food scraps—but all doors they pass are closed tight, curtains drawn.

As they reach the gates of the inner wall, signs of conflict become apparent—patches of sand scattered across cobblestones to soak up blood, cleaner wood showing through in recent gouges on the solid grill of the gate. Gwaine watches as it’s hoisted slowly open at Maris’ command, and he winces when he sees scraps of clothing clinging to the stained, pointed teeth of its base.

“Remind me why we’re here, again?” Gwaine mutters to Lancelot in a low tone, the remark hidden under the clattering of hooves on the cobblestones. Lancelot just gives him a grim glance in return.

The square reminds Gwaine more than anything else of Jarl’s slave-pit: high walls on each side, and no easy escape. There are a few more men—lords, from their garb—waiting on the steps to the entry of the castle, and they walk down to greet Maris and Ector when the party comes to a halt.

“Have the servants sent to the servants’ quarters,” Ector commands after they’ve conferred for long moments. “Half the guardsmen will remain here at the door. We will hold court in the great hall immediately; the rest of our men will accompany us there.”

Inside the castle, at last, they glimpse groups of inhabitants—the city is not deserted, after all. But most scuttle away as the red-garbed column marches through the halls, until only empty suits of armour watch their progress. Kay posts the guardsmen at the doors when they reach the hall, and Ector stands before the empty throne. Lancelot, Kay and Gwaine—Gareth nearby, for Gwaine is not letting him out of sight—stand just behind his left shoulder. To his right, Maris takes up his stance with a group of well-dressed men, plainly more lords keen to accept Uther’s rule. All around stand more empty, imposing suits of armour, reminding Gwaine unnervingly of the uncanny soldiers they’d fought and destroyed not so long ago.

Gradually, the hall fills—though ‘fills’ is perhaps too strong a word. The turnout of lords and ladies is even sparser than Camelot’s after the overthrow of Morgana’s rule; they enter hesitantly, and stand in nervous groups some distance from the throne, eyeing the red-cloaked interlopers with trepidation. After seeing few men on their journey, Gwaine is somewhat surprised by the large proportion of them filling the hall—but at length a few women enter, taking a less powerful position toward the back of a hall, a group of four of them in lustrous gowns, fans held before their faces. One of them stands ahead of the others with her fan closed in her hand and her jaw firmed, dark skin complemented by the crushed red-wine velvet of her gown. Despite her proud bearing, the court’s menfolk pointedly ignore her and the others.

“Courtesans,” Lancelot murmurs under his breath, noticing Gwaine’s curious gaze slanted towards them. “Percival told me of them. Apparently Cenred kept many.”

“Why aren’t there more heirs, then?” Gwaine mutters back.

“Perhaps the answer to that is why there are only four women remaining,” Lancelot returns, and before Gwaine can respond to that morbid thought, Ector clears his throat and begins.


	3. Part Three

After two weeks occupying Cenred’s castle, Gwaine’s unsure whether or not he’s relieved that no blood has been spilt. Of course, especially in a kingdom so decimated by war, and with so few of his own fellows, he’s not keen for further lives to be lost. But if something doesn’t break the oppressive tension that coils around the castle and its people, he might go mad.

As it is, it’s only Kay’s strict and very specific orders that prevent Gwaine from seeking release in the lower town—in a tavern or few he’s sure he can remember from previous visits—though he does use a portion of his salary to bribe kitchen hands to refill his wineskin on a regular basis.

Salaries are distributed by Ector’s seneschal, a man who’s worn a permanent scowl since his first run-in with his Escetian predecessor. It’s he who delivers the letter, calling Gwaine back as he’s leaving with heavier pockets. Gwaine waits, mildly perplexed, while the seneschal leafs through the parchment on his desk, muttering, before handing Gwaine a small folded square, sealed with a misshapen blob of wax.

Gwaine examines it in confusion, flipping between his carefully-penned name and the unknown seal. “Whose is this?” he asks, holding the letter under the seneschal’s nose again.

The man sighs, giving Gwaine an irritated look before peering back down at the seal. “Court physician,” he says shortly before looking back to his papers.

Gwaine blinks in confusion, and when he doesn’t leave, the seneschal stills his hands on his papers and glares up at Gwaine balefully. “ _Camelot’s_ court physician. A messenger arrived yesterday morning.”

“A messenger from Camelot,” Gwaine confirms, excitement springing in his chest.

“Yes.”

“How often—”

The seneschal shrugs. “I cannot say, as scheduling regular routes and times would be unwise, considering the current political climate,” he says drily.

“Could I—”

“Bring your letters back here, and they’ll go with the next rider to Camelot.”

His brusque tone indicates that it’s the last question he’ll answer, but Gwaine’s fairly skipping out the door already, clutching the letter tightly with the irrational fear that he’ll drop it and be unable to find it again.

It’s not hard to find an unoccupied corner of the castle, and Gwaine tucks himself into an alcove with light coming in via an arrow slit above, along with a damp waft of salty air. Settled, he just holds the letter for a moment longer, running his fingertips over the letters of his name before turning it over. He slides his thumbs under the edges of the parchment, and breaks the seal open.

 _Dear Gwaine,_ it reads,

>  _It is my deep wish that this letter find you well and arrived without incident. Lord Ector sent word of his success in convincing the lords of the court to swear fealty to Camelot, but I know your propensity to get into trouble—I hope none has found you yet. Although it is probably too much to hope that you don’t go seeking your own, at the bottom of a cup or elsewhere._
> 
>  _Arthur tells me he sent a squire with you, a boy from Camelot’s west. Apparently he’d not even been to the city before, so it must be very different indeed, to be whisked away even further from home. I know you’ll do well to take care of him, and that your connection will be very beneficial for both of you. He has been training to care for you as a knight, after all._
> 
>  _I wish I had more news to give you of Camelot, but there are particulars not suitable to be written here. There is sadly little gossip to convey. Quite a large number of new squires have been brought in for training, and their tendency to become distracted has driven Sir Bors to apoplexy more than once. I think he is also concerned at the increased time Sir Leon is spending with Arthur: there are things set in motion, and as they change so too do the roles of the remaining knights. I cannot say more than that in this letter; if we were face-to-face it would be otherwise._
> 
>  _It is one of many reasons I wish you were here, though of course I do not need another lecture from Arthur on why it is best that you are there instead. Guinevere is feeling the loss as well—she’s grieving for Morgana, I fear, and pining in her own quiet way over those both near and far. I worry for her—Arthur is reluctant to give her duties below her station, and there are no more royal ladies to see to. Gaius has been giving her things to do, which I think they both appreciate, especially as most of my waking hours are taken up seeing to Arthur, now. I think it is good for her, caring for others in such a direct way—I was never really any good at the healing side of things, much to Gaius’ disappointment. And having Elyan at hand must be a balm on her soul. I do wonder that she hasn’t moved into a room in the castle, which would be closer to all of us._
> 
>  _I hope you find a moment to write to me, as I do think of you often, mainly in the vain hope that you manage to avoid further altercations with giant pheasants bent on your destruction._
> 
>  _Yours,  
>  Merlin_

Gwaine reads it through twice more and laughs—he can’t help it; two asides from Merlin on missing him, and a whole passage on the state of Gwen’s heart. He folds the parchment again and holds it against his lips, unable to keep from smiling. _Yours, yours, yours_ Gwaine’s heart beats steadily, a response forming already. _Dear Merlin,_ he’ll begin. _Your concern for my wellbeing is truly heartening. I will convey your touching regard to the next giant pheasant I come across, as they are quite common here, and good drinking companions besides…_

◊   ◊   ◊

Merlin’s blithe assumption of Gwaine’s goodwill pricks at him; he realises he’s barely seen Gareth in a week—let alone exchanged words with him—for all that they share a sleeping space.

Finding him with Lancelot deftly punctures Gwaine’s good mood.

Gareth looks different, and Gwaine thinks that surely it hasn’t been that long since he’s seen him, until he realises it’s because the boy is smiling—unselfconscious and genuine, eyes focused in concentration on Lancelot’s clearly projected moves as he spars; as if he doesn’t even realise he’s doing it. It makes Gwaine hesitant to approach—he can only remember Gareth seeming guarded around him, or worried or morose.

Abruptly Gwaine can’t tell if the stab of bitterness he feels is directed inward, at knowing that he’s not the man Merlin hopes for; or toward Lancelot, for so effortlessly fulfilling the role that Gwaine can’t stop himself resisting.

And then Gareth—tongue sticking out in concentration—attempts a very familiar move; engaging his sword with Lancelot’s and attempting to force it from Lancelot’s grip with a twist. The move requires more strength and dexterity than Gareth’s weak wrists possess, though, and upon his clumsy failure Lancelot laughs.

Bracing himself for a condemnation of the trick move, Gwaine is fairly gobsmacked when instead Lancelot says, “Think that one needs a little more work—try it slower, at first. Though once you practise your basics more, it will come easier.”

Gwaine can’t hide any longer; he saunters out of his hiding place and onto the lawn they’re practising on. “I thought that one was out of the rule book,” he says laconically, letting some of his genuine confusion bleed through as he meets Lancelot’s eyes.

Lancelot nods and smiles; a little apologetically, Gwaine thinks. Or perhaps he’s reading that because that’s what he wants to see. “It’s not exactly a dishonest move, is it?” Lancelot reasons. “Perhaps it should be added to the rule book.”

Gwaine smirks. “Dishonest,” he repeats. “Where I come from, we call them _dirty_.” He slants Gareth a confiding look. “I could teach you some more dirty moves.”

Lancelot laughs. He sheathes his sword and claps Gwaine on the shoulder. “No leading Gareth astray,” he says without condescension. “Look, you’ve frightened the boy half to death.”

Gareth sheathes his own blade at that, and he doesn’t look frightened—his eyebrows lifted in incredulity more than shock, then lowering into a glower, his jaw clenching in that familiar mulishness. Gwaine grins.

“You’re in good spirits, my friend,” Lancelot says, drawing Gwaine’s attention back to him again, and the observation grooves Gwaine’s smile deeper. “Could I hazard a guess that you received a missive from Camelot?”

Gwaine lifts an eyebrow, and Lancelot dips his head a minuscule amount; a letter from Guinevere as well, then. “Walk with me,” Gwaine says, tilting his head in the direction of the gardens.

Lancelot nods, then looks back over Gwaine’s shoulder. “Gareth,” he calls.

They wait while Gareth runs about, putting the practice equipment away, and Gwaine frowns. “You shouldn’t exclude him,” Lancelot murmurs lowly, as if he can read Gwaine’s thoughts. “He’s only trying his best—he’s further from home than the rest of us, and it’s not just training he needs, but other involvement as well.”

Gwaine wonders if Lancelot’s letter was from Merlin after all.

“Besides,” Lancelot continues, voice dropping as Gareth finishes up. “Think of it this way: you’ve a noble to shape to your own notions. There’s no need to punish him for something he hasn’t even become yet.”

Gwaine huffs out a sigh of acknowledgement, and Lancelot claps him on the shoulder again. “Come, then,” Lancelot says, louder as Gareth joins them. “Tell me of your news.”

While Gwaine does agree with Lancelot on the value of keeping Gareth informed, he’s also inclined—for somewhat different reasons than Lancelot—toward discretion on the personal details. Consequently, their conversation is just as dense with the unspoken as with what they dare voice aloud.

It’s nearing twilight by the time they return indoors, via Lancelot’s chambers first; he responds to Gwaine’s begging with a begrudged, single sheet of parchment and borrowed quill.

Gareth seems in a better mood from their walk as well, and when Gwaine decides to sleep early rather than find a quiet corner to drink in, he’s _there_ , sitting on the edge of his cot and running the whetstone over his own short sword. Gwaine’s chain mail is sprawled next to him, as if waiting its turn.

Gwaine feels a little ridiculous at having an audience as he wanders to stand by the open window. With his back to Gareth—the lowering sun still letting enough light in to read by—he takes out the letter again. _Yours, Merlin._

“Did you leave behind a lover in Camelot?” Gareth asks, unprompted.

Gwaine turns to look at him and Gareth meets his impassive gaze only for a few moments before flushing, ducking his head down again. He puts his shoulders into the movement of the whetstone, and Gwaine tries not to smile.

“An admirer, then,” Gareth back-steps.

Gwaine chuckles. “I’m not one to kiss and tell,” he says with as much sincerity as he can muster, hand to his heart.

Gareth lifts his head again, giving him a sceptical look. “Lancelot told me,” he says shortly.

Gwaine’s smile falls away, and it’s with effort that he doesn’t crush the letter in his hands with the urge to clench his fists, sweat prickling on the back of his neck.

“Only that you left behind a paramour,” Gareth says, tone dipping uncertainly. “And that that’s why you were in such a foul mood all the way here.” He gives Gwaine a measuring look. “I just thought you were a bad-tempered drunkard.”

A laugh bursts out of Gwaine. “Then there’s hope for your powers of deduction yet,” he says, walking back to his bed, tousling Gareth’s hair roughly on his way past.

Gareth scowls at him. “Mind you, I’m not sure this mood is much better.”

“Easy, there,” Gwaine says without heat. “One of a knight’s greatest skills is to know when to fall back.” He glances over pointedly. “Especially before he’s given even more work to do.”

Gareth doesn’t speak again, though the silence isn’t a cold one, and the sound of him working lulls Gwaine to sleep as the sun sets.

◊   ◊   ◊

  


> _Dear Merlin,_
> 
>  _Your concern for my wellbeing is truly heartening. Sadly, no giant pheasants have made their presence known since I have been here, nor have I seen the bottom of very many cups. I’m afraid the newly lorded Ector lost a small quantity of his wine stores on the journey here, so Kay keeps a keen eye on me now and I’m forbidden to visit the taverns in the lower town. I don’t know why he should be such a wet blanket about it. If I hadn’t been familiar with a tavern or two on our road, we’d have learned far less about the state of Escetia._
> 
>  _I’m not sure what kind of man he thinks I am. As you said, I have been taking perfect care of my squire—Gareth, his name is—and yet the boy returned from an afternoon with Kay having been questioned as to whether I’ve made any advances on him, of all things. Of course, Kay doesn’t know I’m spoken for—I’m sure he thinks me an absolute scoundrel, and the traitorous Lancelot has said nothing to dissuade him._
> 
>  _At any rate, whether I’m a scoundrel or not has little bearing on Gareth: Lancelot has found a receptive ear in him, as they can speak for hours on their beloved knight’s code. Though you will probably be pleased to learn that I am usually present for these conversations as well, so my own education in the bearing and manners of knighthood is also proceeding apace. Gareth meanwhile receives physical training from me, and while he's somewhat clumsy and quick to tire, I believe there’s a good fighter in him, one that will become more apparent as he builds up more strength and endurance._
> 
>  _Between you and me, the responsibility of it feels rather like raising a child, for all that he is generally capable of fending for himself, and much better doing as he’s told than I ever was. Though he has been developing a penchant for talking back—which, unlike your Prince, I find more entertaining than anything else._
> 
>  _And here I must end, as Lancelot was miserly enough to only give me a single sheet of parchment, and only then with the promise that I would pass on his regards also._
> 
>  _And of course, you have my fondest regards,  
>  Sir Gwaine of Camelot_

  


◊   ◊   ◊

Lancelot’s door is open when Gwaine arrives, and Gwaine gets his attention by tearing off a corner of bread and tossing it at the back of Lancelot’s head.

Lancelot turns and frowns, looking Gwaine up and down. “Where’s your wine, then?”

Gwaine strolls in and sits on the edge of Lancelot’s bed, tearing off another chunk of bread and stuffing it in his mouth. He tosses Lancelot the rest of the loaf, and pulls a similarly cloth-wrapped round of cheese from his pocket. “Brought food instead.”

Lancelot turns his chair around to face Gwaine. He has a room to himself, and though it’s a little smaller than the one Gwaine shares with Gareth, there is space enough for a small table.

Gwaine peers around him to look at it. “Where did you get such fine parchment? The seneschal wouldn’t give me any, I was thinking of going into the town tomorrow…”

He trails off as Lancelot stands and goes to the door, looks briefly either way into the hall, then closes and bars it before returning to his seat. “Where’s Gareth?” he asks, elbows resting on his knees as he hunches forward towards Gwaine, hands rubbing together nervously.

Gwaine lifts an eyebrow. “With Kay, who’s probably making sure I haven’t driven him to drink yet. I assume this isn’t something you want him to be _involved_ in?”

Lancelot shakes his head a little. “The parchment is from Lady Bronwen,” he says.

Both of Gwaine’s eyebrows lift. “The courtesan?” Perhaps Lancelot has depths that he’s managed to keep utterly hidden. Gwaine feels a little put out that Lancelot’s been holding back on him. He smirks salaciously. “Lancelot, you must tell—”

“No, idiot,” Lancelot cuts him off, exasperated. “She’s Uther’s spy.”

Gwaine draws in a deep breath, leaning back. It makes… perfect sense, actually. Who better than a courtesan for extracting what goes on behind the closed doors of a court? He huffs out an impressed laugh. “Now _that_ is a story I’d like to hear.”

Lancelot doesn’t seem to share his amusement, his smile small and guarded. “Good,” he says, “I’ll tell it to you. Bronwen was a lady of Camelot’s court, while Queen Ygraine still lived. She’s a magic user, apparently capable of nothing more extravagant than small charms and party tricks. Which was not uncommon in the court at that point, as I’m sure it is here, as well.” Lancelot presses his lips tightly in pause, still leaning forward, eyes fixed on Gwaine’s face. “When the King outlawed magic, the magic users of his court fled to protect themselves from execution.

“Bronwen made a bargain with Uther. Her family’s life would be spared—they would only be banished—if she sought sanctuary in the Escetian court and publicly avowed her hatred of Uther and of Camelot.”

“Which I’m sure the king wouldn’t have been able to turn away,” Gwaine observes; even before Cenred ascended the throne, Escetia was never an ally of Camelot’s.

Lancelot nods. “Especially if she were willing to occupy such a role in his court.”

“And her family?”

“Disappeared—although not by way of Uther’s dungeons. Many of Camelot’s subjects fled to live amongst the druids when the Great Purge began, or so Arthur told me.”

“Lucky few,” Gwaine laughs humourlessly, and has to stop when a thought occurs to him. “Wait, _Arthur_ told you? How is she to be dealt with now Escetia is under Camelot’s rule?”

Lancelot searches Gwaine’s face for long moments. “I’ve been instructed to protect her,” he says at length, the corner of his mouth twitching up briefly as Gwaine wilts with visible relief. “The court has been volatile since Cenred’s death; magic or not, it takes great courage and fortitude to hold her position when so many others have fled. The courtesans are particularly vulnerable, with no king to favour them.”

“There’s been no ruling,” Gwaine says as he realises. “No declaration outlawing magic, here in Escetia.”

Lancelot nods. “Just the assumption. Which means no open subversion of Uther’s ruling.”

“But Ector—”

“—was Uther’s knight, yes. But he is, at heart, a practical man, who is open to a succeeding king’s way of thinking.”

They’re skirting close to treachery, which feels somehow more dangerous behind a judiciously closed door than when Gwaine was saying it to the Prince’s face.

“I never understood it, myself,” Gwaine confesses lowly, nonetheless. “To be honest, I rarely could bear spending time in Camelot before they brought me there.”

Lancelot softens, sharing a rueful smile. “It’s more treachery for me to say it than you—being a subject, born and raised—but I agree wholeheartedly.” He looks at his hands in silence for a moment. “Things will change,” he says with quiet conviction. He looks up again, his eyes intent on Gwaine’s. “I am glad we’re in agreement.”

Gwaine snorts. “Yes, well. I think you’d have to be mad to think otherwise. But, more importantly—just how much gossip did Gwen send you?”

Lancelot laughs. “This is not gossip that could be shared in a letter, my friend. Some of us spent our time in Camelot attending meetings and building trust, rather than mooning around after servants.”

His smirk is begging Gwaine to point out Lancelot’s hypocrisy, but he doesn’t have the heart to. At least Merlin was generally mooning _back_ , whereas poor Guinevere… Well. Merlin had pinpointed it quite accurately, it seems: mourning Morgana, pining near and far.

“Speaking of which, you do have enough parchment to spare, don’t you?”

Lancelot throws a piece of bread at him. “No, as a matter of fact. Though I will come with you to buy some more tomorrow, if you promise to stop pestering me.”

Gwaine pouts, but feels secretly pleased at Lancelot’s irritation, as he does every time a chink in Lancelot’s noble armour shows. “Don’t expect me to send any of your regards, next time. I’ll just pass on what a horrible miser you are.”

Lancelot shakes his head, reaching over to snatch the cheese away from Gwaine. “I’m beginning to wish you’d brought that wine after all.”

◊   ◊   ◊

  


> _Dear Sir Gwaine of Camelot,_
> 
>  _Has Sir Kay forbidden you to buy parchment as well as ale? I should like to forbid you your increasingly small writing, if you don’t mind. Surely an expedition to show off the handsome drape of your red cloak would not go astray. You do preen very well—I shall observe Gareth closely on your return to determine whether this is another aspect of physical training he has absorbed. I am glad he’s not letting you order him about without question, though I have to say that you are mistaken about Arthur—I firmly believe that he is greatly entertained by back-talk; he merely chooses to express his royal appreciation by throwing the nearest object at hand._
> 
>  _I must apologetically admit: it hardly surprises me that Lancelot hasn’t leapt to defend your virtue. Just how many barmaids did you sweet-talk along the way? Surely you did not divulge to them that you were spoken for. (Nor would I want you to deny yourself that, if you desire it. You should know that of course I would like to speak for you, but would be loath to talk over you, as it were.)_
> 
>  _I am sure you have been something of a scoundrel your entire life, and it surprises me not a bit that you were an unruly child. I, however, was a paragon of good behaviour, much to my mother’s relief. As you know, she and I were alone as I grew up—I’m not sure she could have managed on her own if I was disinclined to do her bidding. Though you may note here that I am judiciously omitting the few years before I came of age, when I ran wild with Will. But the less said about chickens in chimneys, the better. I hope you at least had brothers and sisters to ease the strain on your poor mother?_
> 
>  _As before, much of Camelot’s news deals with what occurs behind closed doors. Gaius is increasingly occupied with his patient, and I worry at the toll it’s taking on him. Gwen has moved into a room in the castle, so she is more available to alleviate the strain on him caused by other duties and patients, of which there are thankfully fewer and fewer: the last sufferers of Morgana’s rule have either returned to their homes or passed beyond this mortal realm entirely. I myself leave the citadel rarely. The last time involved riding out with Arthur and a few of the knights on a hunt, and ended on the wrong end of a cockatrice. I barely got him back in one piece, and I must say it has muted any enthusiasm I might have had for getting out in the countryside more. And that’s nothing to say of the oppressive heat—it’s much cooler in the castle than in the open sun, especially when you’re running about carrying game._
> 
>  _By the time this reaches you summer will be in full swing, though. Arthur keeps very tight-lipped about his missives from Ector, so I suspect the messenger route will continue to be varied and unpredictable._
> 
>  _Yours,  
>  Merlin_

  


◊   ◊   ◊

  


> _Dear Merlin,_
> 
>  _I wish now I had waited a little longer to get more parchment of my own before sending my last letter, for you must know: I too think of you often—more often than not—and above anything else I desire to be by your side again. Do not concern yourself with talking over me; I would like you to speak for me, and loudly—though perhaps the particulars of that are best kept for when we can converse privately again._
> 
>  _You will be pleased to note that I am writing (at a consistent size) on parchment purchased with my own coin. Not quite as fine as that Lancelot managed to procure, but obtained honestly. As to your question of brothers and sisters: none made it beyond infanthood, much to my father’s disappointment—my mother always told me he wished for a sturdy collection of heirs. Unfortunately for him, he only ended up with me. I did, however, grow up in a household full of cousins, most of whom were well-beloved and consequently behaved impeccably to their elders._
> 
>  _Who is Will? And you cannot leave it at that—I must hear of the chickens and chimneys, even if you have to tell me in instalments. Not to mention cockatrices—how does that man manage to attract so much incidental danger? I do hope he’s learned his lesson and you manage to avoid any further incidents of near-death and sunburn._
> 
>  _Gareth has been taking great pleasure lately in dressing me in as many layers of armour and livery as possible before we ride out to visit the towns beyond the city. Though the drape of my cloak is very handsome (thank you for noticing), it is hellishly hot beneath it, and the locals appreciate the show not a whit. Although Ector has not re-stated Camelot’s ruling in Escetia’s court, Uther’s reputation precedes us, and we are greeted more with fear than welcome, except by those who see sycophancy as the best means of survival. I’m afraid I’m baffled that Uther could be considered worse than Cenred—but at least Cenred did not ruthlessly persecute magic users, of which there are many._
> 
>  _(It occurs to me that I have assumed that you do not share the Pendragon tendency to, well, behave as reputed, and will not hand over this letter as further evidence for Uther to have my head. And I hope that if any spies read this letter, they will take heart: we who occupy the seat of your kingdom hold no murderous intent.)_
> 
>  _Speaking of Lancelot: I do hope you are taking care of Gwen as well. After each delivery of letters from Camelot, he seems increasingly withdrawn—I am learning it is his favoured technique for ‘acting nobly’. It’s damnably hard to tell if he’s doing it because he’s being rejected, or if it’s just the opposite, and he reacts because he feels drawn further into the tangle. He refuses to speak to me of any of it, but one unfortunate effect of his tall, dark broodiness is that Gareth has formed an attachment to him—which surely cannot end well. Gareth already thinks me somewhat of a fool, so I doubt whether my stepping in would do anything but firm up his affections, so to speak._
> 
>  _There now, I think I’ve shared all the pertinent details—I won’t bore you with all the matters of court here that I have no doubt Arthur is inundated with in each missive from Ector. And, knowing you, you’re probably reading it over his shoulder anyway. Though I should hope you will not allow him to read over yours._
> 
>  _Your devoted knight,  
>  Gwaine_

  


◊   ◊   ◊

When Gwaine makes it to the great hall, he’s just in time for Ector’s audience to have ended; he’d practically had to fight his way through the crowd to get here. The lords of the court are still in attendance—the faces the same as Gwaine had seen gathered there on their first day, with perhaps one or two new additions. There’s also another disgruntled-looking knight that Gwaine recognises from their recently-begun training sessions, pale-haired and pink about the eyes. Kay stands nearby looking nearly as annoyed. He hides it well, but Gwaine is now beyond familiar with reading that expression.

“Sir Gwaine,” Ector calls him, voice booming and tone authoritative. “Come forth.”

Gwaine approaches to stand a respectful distance away, albeit uneasily, recalling the multitude of times he’d been called to account in such settings in the past. “My Lord.”

“A petitioner has brought to Sir Kay’s attention that there are some alleged activities of disrepute occurring in the lower town, near the south wall.” Gwaine’s eyes dart to Kay quickly, the combination of _Kay_ and _disrepute_ making him instinctively feel guilty.

“You are to investigate the claims with Sir Andras, and report back to the court.”

Sir Andras does not appear to be cheered even the slightest by this news; if anything, his distasteful expression deepens.

“May we interview the petitioner, my Lord?” Gwaine asks, knowing from experience that a quiet drink shared over a tavern table is probably likely to yield more information than strutting about the town with swords at their belts will.

“The petitioner has chosen to remain anonymous,” Kay says, giving Gwaine a pointed look— _ah_. Gwaine shifts under the scrutiny of the silently assembled lords, and dips his head in assent.

 

Andras proves to be as sullen-tempered as he appeared in the great hall. As disdainful as he is while silent, when he speaks he’s practically derisive. If Gwaine were the pedantic, noble type, he’d say Andras’ stiffly-delivered comments border on treachery: his criticisms of Ector’s orders—and by proxy, Gwaine himself—are as thinly veiled as they come.

Gwaine enjoys riling him by remaining serenely unmoved as they walk to the town, keeping up his side of the small talk with noncommittal niceties, though he does envy Gareth for being entirely ignored.

As they reach the lower town, the ground turns from smooth paving to gritty bedrock, and while there are more people moving about, none of them meet Gwaine’s eyes. Realising that they’re not any more friendly to Andras is not exactly reassuring. For all that Gwaine had come to accept a degree of animosity when he was on patrol with Lancelot, he’d been assuming that an Escetian knight would be acknowledged with a little more warmth.

It makes Gwaine focus more keenly not only on how the townspeople respond to them, but how Andras responds to the townspeople.

“There were many petitioners this morning,” Gwaine comments, projecting nonchalance. “Did Cenred used to receive so many?”

“There was rarely need for King Cenred to hold an audience; he did so only monthly,” Andras says shortly.

“I suppose with the kingdom’s population so depleted, there is more need for subjects to seek assistance from the crown.”

Andras sniffs. “There are surely enough to work the land as they’ve always done. If anything, there are now fewer mouths to feed. Taxes ought to be raised to take the excess into account.”

Gwaine’s eyebrow lifts, unable to remain blasé about that particular opinion. “Really.”

“There is much of the kingdom that needs to be reconsolidated,” Andras continues. “The royal treasury was greatly diminished by the King’s war effort.”

“I’m not much one for politics myself,” Gwaine returns, “but surely you’re not suggesting that the widows left to run your lands are _better off_ for Cenred’s follies?”

“No, I don’t suppose you are.” Andras turns his disdain to Gwaine directly. “I wouldn’t expect you to comprehend such a thing.” He ends the conversation by walking on.

There’s something to his dismissal that leaves Gwaine uneasy—not that he hasn’t adapted, long ago, to the scorn that comes from those who thinks he’s lesser for not being noble-born.

But Andras shouldn’t _know_ that his knighthood was not gained by birth. Ector certainly wouldn’t have divulged it, nor Kay or Lancelot, and the soldiers brought from Camelot were chosen for their loyalty; surely there would be no loose lips in that quarter either.

“You there!” Andras calls ahead, and Gwaine sighs as the woman in Andras’ sights freezes and bows her head.

“Sir.” Gwaine turns to find Gareth at his elbow. “Shall I see if I can find someone to talk to?”

Though Gwaine and Andras are in full plumage—Camelot red clashing with Andras’ maroon cloak—Gareth doesn’t have any livery, having left Camelot at too short notice. Gwaine suspects that at the rate Gareth is growing he’d need a new kit by the time they return home anyway. In the meantime, Gareth’s plain clothing and youthful looks mean he can easily blend in with the packs of children that roam about the lower town.

Gwaine nods. “I’ll keep this one occupied.” He cocks his head in Andras’ direction. “Come back if you find anything. Although—” He lowers his voice further. “—You need not share everything you discover with both of us.” He gives Gareth an expectant look, patting him briefly on the shoulder when the boy’s expression demonstrates his understanding. Then Gareth wanders off and away, slipping between the salt-scoured walls of the buildings.

 

Unsurprisingly, Andras’ tactics yield few results, and Kay’s informant had been frustratingly unspecific. The south wall is a long, curved stretch with a chaotic clutter of structures built within its scoop. With the tide in, the sea sounds dangerously close, waves crunching against the cliff face and receding with a hiss, and the sounds catch and seethe in the hundreds of angles and hidey-holes formed by the precarious construction of the buildings. The brittle wood, mouldering thatch and taut sailcloth creak, rustle and snap, adding to the sinister chorus.

Gwaine suspects that were the town in better repair, it wouldn’t sound so much as if the entire section of it was about to come loose and blow away. It’s hard to tell if the houses have been abandoned, or if there are residents, and they’ve just retreated before Gwaine and Andras’ approach. Gwaine is more inclined to think the latter; he’s never been in a city where there aren’t people homeless and destitute; surely the houses wouldn’t have been left entirely empty.

Andras breaks their silence by muttering, “What a miserable place,” with considerable distaste.

“Indeed,” Gwaine says drily, “one that would undoubtedly be improved by increased taxes.”

He can almost feel Andras’ glower at his back.

“This town flourished under King Cenred’s rule,” Andras grits. “The entire kingdom reaped the rewards of what he wrought.”

Before Gwaine can respond to _that_ statement with a biting observation or two of his own, Gareth appears, emerging abruptly from behind a ragged curtain of hessian at the corner of Gwaine’s eye. Gwaine reels back, and suppresses the urge to curse at Gareth for startling him, mindful of their company.

Gareth’s mouth twitches as if Gwaine’s attempt at good behaviour amuses him greatly. “Sir,” he says, then ducks behind the curtain again. When he reappears, he’s hauling another boy by the wrist. “This lad reckons he’s seen a thing or two.”

The boy is smaller than Gareth, wrist twiggy in Gareth’s grip for all that his weather-beaten look makes him seem as resilient as a bit of driftwood. He’s sunburnt over his nose, skin chapped and hair tousled into stiff tufts from the salty air. Next to the rags he’s wearing, Gareth’s clothes look fit for a prince, and yet he bears it all with a kind of obstinate dignity that Gwaine can’t help but admire.

“What is your name, child?” Andras commands, striding to where they stand.

Gareth’s eyes dart to Gwaine’s in subtle alarm, but his concern is unfounded: the boy remains silent as he scowls up at them.

“He needn’t share that,” Gwaine reassures, crouching down. “He can tell us what he likes and then go on his way. Right, Sir Andras?”

Gwaine looks up at the other knight pointedly until Andras gives a single, stiff nod.

Gareth moves his grip to the boy’s shoulder instead, jostling him a little in encouragement. When he still doesn’t speak, Gareth clears his throat. Gwaine glances up at him, and Gareth lifts an eyebrow, subtly rubbing the pads of his thumb and fingers together.

Gwaine huffs, shouldering back his cloak back to dig into the pouch at his belt. He flicks up a single coin with his thumb; the boy snatches it out of the air like a greedy seagull. Andras makes an indignant noise.

“Never mind Sir Andras,” Gwaine says, keeping his eyes on the boy’s as he speaks, low and confiding, “he doesn’t like to be reminded that everyone can do as they please.”

The boy’s scowl eases a little, shrewdness edging into his gaze as he considers Gwaine.

“Can you tell me what you’ve seen?” Gwaine prompts.

The boy’s eyes flit to Gwaine’s coin pouch briefly, so Gwaine tosses him another.

“There’s a hole in the wall,” the boy says, the coin tucked away and out of sight immediately, just like the first.

“Where?”

He points, and when he turns back to Gwaine he seems expectant of more questions.

“Have you seen people using it?”

The boy nods. “At high tide. There are men at night.”

“Can you see what they’re doing?”

The boy shakes his head this time, and though he grabs at the coin eagerly when Gwaine holds it up, his answer is still negative when Gwaine asks again.

“Very well,” Gwaine says, rising to his feet. Before he’s even made it to standing, the boy has shrugged out of Gareth’s hold and run off out of sight.

Gwaine turns to Andras, meeting his displeased look with one of sanguine challenge. Andras turns and stalks towards the wall.

 

With the boy’s directions far from specific, they make their way painstakingly along the broad stretch of wall indicated by his gesture. While the wall is largely sheer stone cut into the bedrock, there are clusters of debris at occasional points along it, and it’s at one particular heap of broken wood and rubble that Gwaine picks up more signs of traffic that he’d seen elsewhere. It’s clear that for all that the clutter of it appears incidental, the refuse has been moved recently.

He begins to move it away from the wall, piece by piece, trying to follow the same method he can half-read in their placement. Andras begins to help, and Gareth too—scrambling around more easily than Gwaine feels able to, quickly overheating beneath his layers of cloak and mail. His hair is damp with sweat by the time they uncover the hole; it’s low to the ground and only big enough for a man to get through if he’s crawling.

Andras moves forward and crouches to peer through it, and Gwaine takes the opportunity to look back over his shoulder at the impassive audience of dilapidated houses. There’s no way their activity has gone unnoticed, but he feels more pleased about that than anything. While ‘disreputable activities’ had suggested sordid possibilities, this looks nothing more sinister than a way to get in and out of the city, unregulated and undetected. Better then to indirectly warn the perpetrators, than persecute them for something so harmless.

“I’ll go through,” Gareth declares, picking his way through the hardly-cleared path to get closer to the opening, edging in in front of Andras.

“Careful,” Gwaine says sharply before Gareth can duck through; for it _is_ high tide and that’s the part he can’t figure out—surely sneaking in and out of the citadel would be far easier at low tide, with the spit tethering the rock to the mainland widening enough for travellers to go unnoticed upon it. He knows what the citadel looks like from the outside: rising, dankly austere, from a striated cliff face. Falling from the edge of it would surely not yield a happy outcome.

“It’s all right,” Gareth calls out, his high voice half-whipped away by the wind against the cliff as he sticks his head out to look. “There’s room enough to walk.”

Andras follows first, and then Gwaine, unsure if he feels more precarious on the edge or more safe, weighed down with mail and gear as he is. The precipice is not as severe as he’d anticipated, though. The water is closer than he would have thought; the surface is a safe jump away, and there are some knotted, tenacious plants growing out of the rock. Gareth is leaning alarmingly forward, not even touching the wall for balance. “There are steps over here!” he shouts excitedly.

Andras strides forward, pre-empting Gwaine by grabbing Gareth’s arm and hauling him back from the edge. Then he crouches, getting a more stable vantage point to peer down, cloak billowing in the gusty wind coming off the sea.

After a moment, he rises again and walks back to Gwaine. “Smugglers,” he says shortly, his tone grim. “The nerve of them, in the royal seat no less—”

Gwaine jerks his head back toward the wall, his own mouth set in a tense line.

It all makes perfect sense, of course—and absolutely ironic sense, given what Andras had been adamantly declaring for half the afternoon—but he’s not surprised by Andras’ dark silence as they head back towards the castle. “I suppose that people who are perfectly happy with the just commerce and taxation of their kingdom would have no reason to engage in such a disreputable activity,” Gwaine muses aloud.

“I’d not make the mistake of ascribing such low-born people any hint of integrity,” Andras returns acidly.

Sobered by the pointedness of Andras’ tone, Gwaine finds himself meeting Gareth’s similarly troubled gaze, falling into step with him as Andras strides ahead.

◊   ◊   ◊

  


> _Dear Devoted Dolt,_
> 
>  _Of course I don’t let Arthur read over my shoulder—he mocks me enough as it is, I’m hardly about to let him catch me poring over my keepsakes. (Not that Arthur isn't hearing about your deeds in great detail already, with letters from Lancelot as well as Ector.) I will take you up on the offer to speak loudly of you when next we two find a moment alone, though—I’m sure you could make me say anything you wish._
> 
>  _And your assumptions are correct—I could never think badly of you, anyway. It saddens me to think of the people of Escetia suffering further through fear, especially when all Arthur really wants is to bring them under his protection. We live in a troublesome state—though Uther is King in no more than name, his ruling still holds firm as ever. I fear that Morgana undertaking her coup with the aid of magic only served to convince the people of Camelot that Uther’s law is merited._
> 
>  _And for those in Camelot who are magic users... it is more than just fear they suffer through. A boy was caught using magic in the lower town last week, for nothing more than keeping his horse from snapping its leg in a ditch. Arthur was forced to imprison him, indefinitely awaiting execution—to contradict the King’s law while he’s still living would subvert Arthur’s own integrity. And I am not sure that Arthur isn’t entirely convinced that his father’s law is unjust—only that he feels, like the rest of us, that there has been enough death._
> 
>  _But on to lighter matters. You asked about Will. I grew up with him in Ealdor. On reflection he was not unlike you—the son of a knight, disillusioned by his father’s death. But not so disillusioned that he couldn’t goad me into a monstrous amount of trouble. The incident with the chicken is not one that requires instalments to tell—I will say only that the bird in question was a test subject for our dream of fitting ourselves through the chimney, the trial run of which coincided with my mother arriving home and beginning to lay the fire. Needless to say, it was some time before we ate eggs again._
> 
>  _I was never one for numerous friendships either, so Will and I were very fast friends to the exclusion of others, though I sometimes longed for a household of playmates. Growing up with cousins sounds ideal, though you do not seem to paint it that way. How did you end up living with—your mother’s family, I assume? And I’m deducing that you did not part on amicable terms, or is your fondness for roaming purely that, and not born of a lack of home? I apologise if this is too forward a question—do not mention it in your reply if you don’t wish to answer, and I’ll not speak of it again._
> 
>  _I am intrigued by Gareth’s fixation on Lancelot, though I cannot help but take the news with an equal measure of dread. Perhaps Lancelot is the sort doomed to leave a trail of broken hearts behind him, and we just haven’t realised yet? You may have to subdue him, for all our sakes. I am sure you cannot be right in thinking that Gareth thinks you a fool, though—would he be so inclined to learn swordsmanship from a fool? Perhaps you should try to advise him on matters of the heart, now that you’ve managed to get your own sorted._
> 
>  _And speaking of those pining after certain knights: I have passed on your regard to Gwen, who seemed quietly appreciative. She managed to drag me out into the sun to gather herbs for Gaius, which it seems I’ve not done in an age, and the state of things here means it’s not entirely safe for Gwen to leave the city on her own. She also managed to drag Arthur out—he did not appreciate your regard so much, but it did provide opportunity for more of his possessive bluster, which charmed Gwen sufficiently. All in all, it was lovely to spend some quiet moments with them. Though it made me miss you all the more—odd, isn’t it, that I feel your absence more in the happier moments? The summer was so rich around, and those two so hearteningly besotted with each other, that my chest just filled up with want for you._
> 
>  _But I’m getting away from myself. You should share some of the matters of court—I’m certain you could shape them into stories that would have little political value, but be greatly entertaining nonetheless._
> 
>  _Yours,  
>  Merlin_

  


◊   ◊   ◊

“We need to get out of the citadel,” Gwaine declares. “It’s our morning off, and Kay has approved us riding out.”

Lancelot closes his book. “You seem rather sure of yourself.”

Gareth turns away from Lancelot’s table, where he’s practising forming letters on a wax plate, to face them.

“It’s too hot, and the gardens are full of nobles. I want to be in the forest again.” Gwaine drops down on the bed next to Lancelot. “Don’t you miss _trees?_ ”

“There’s a stream that runs through the forest,” Gareth blurts, and Gwaine looks to him curiously. Gareth’s eyes flit between him and Lancelot. “With a spot good for swimming. I heard from the stablehands.” He closes his mouth abruptly, looking down and away from Lancelot, a flush rising in his cheeks.

“That sounds just the thing,” says Lancelot, oblivious. “Do you know how to swim?”

Gareth shakes his head, face still turned down, and Gwaine resists the urge to lean in and hide a smile against Lancelot’s shoulder. There’s provocative, and then there’s downright cruel, and Gwaine remembers what it felt to be a young man overwhelmed with a fixation on someone. Especially as it feels sometimes like no time has passed at all.

“We have until the mid-afternoon bell,” Gwaine says.

“Can you prepare the horses?”

“Yes, Sir.” Gareth is up and out the door before Gwaine can say a word.

Lancelot sighs, standing, and lifts his sword belt from its hook by the door. “What?” he says when he turns to see Gwaine still lounging on the bed, one ankle crossed over the other, a smirk broad on his face.

“He is still _my_ squire, you know. Even if he’d follow _any_ order you gave him.”

Lancelot looks uncomfortable. “It’s unsurprising for someone so young and so far away from home to form attachments to those nearby and familiar.”

“Yes, I’m sure he’d quite like to be _attached_ ,” Gwaine drawls.

“Stop it.” Lancelot taps Gwaine’s shins—not gently—with the flat of his scabbard. Softer, he says, “I’ll talk to him.”

“Try not to mortify him, will you?” Gwaine jumps to his feet.

“I’m not you. I can actually handle delicate situations.”

“Ouch.”

“Come on, let’s get out into the trees, then.”

 

Even without his heavy cloak and mail, the last strains of summer heat have Gwaine sweating into his clothes, and he gives an audible sigh of relief when they reach the tree line. They follow the flow of the stream to where it widens, the current continuing around the shallow, sandy edge of the bank, and darker water swirling slowly into a deep pool. An ancient willow drapes on the shoreline, arching enormous roots from the bank into the water, slender leaves drifting idly.

Despite evidence of the spot’s popularity, there’s no one else around, and Gwaine’s already getting undressed as soon as he manages to peel himself out of the saddle. He leaves the horse to Gareth’s capable care without a backward glance, shucking his clothes into a pile a little further than splashing distance from the water. It’s bracingly cold when he first steps into it, icier than the refreshing breeze of summer air cooling his sweaty skin, and he grasps an upraised willow root—wood smooth and polished from no doubt years of swimmers doing the same—as he feels for the depth with his feet.

Then he’s lurching forward into the water, the chill of it clapping onto his skin and enfolding him entirely. A shout bursts out of him when he bobs back to the surface, the lingering shock of the cold wringing out startled huffs of laughter as he treads water. Lancelot looks on in amusement, half-undressed.

Gwaine pauses a moment to admire the cut of Lancelot’s chest, perfect angles messily covered with swirls of dark hair. “Get on with it, then,” Gwaine shouts, and ducks his mouth below the water to grin as Lancelot rolls his eyes and strips his trousers off, uncovering the equally delightful sculpt and pelt of his long, muscular thighs, cock hanging dark and soft between. The muscles bunch and tense as Lancelot takes his first testing step into the water, and Gwaine dives back under the surface to emerge closer with an almighty splash.

“Oh, you do _not_ want to challenge me,” Lancelot says dangerously once he’s bitten off his yelp of surprise, and then for long minutes it’s all breathless laughter and slippery limbs, Gwaine trying to shove and keep Lancelot’s head under the water and his own head above, coughing and spluttering every other second when he fails and water goes in where it oughtn’t.

Eventually they tire, Lancelot floating on his back, stroking hands through the water every so often to stop himself from being carried downstream. Gwaine treads water with the minimal effort required, keeping just his eyes and nose above the surface. Now that all the splashing and challenging is over, Gwaine realises that Gareth is still on dry land—and completely dressed, at that. The boy sits with his knees drawn up against his chest, arms folded atop them and cradling his chin.

“Come on, then, it’s not that deep—we can teach you to swim,” Gwaine calls.

Gareth’s eyes snap away from Lancelot’s drifting figure, and he lifts his head to look at Gwaine. The set of his jaw is firm and his eyes are wide and glazed, not unlike the first few times they rode into unknown territory and assured peril. “No, thank you,” he says stiffly.

“It really isn’t that bad once you get the hang of it,” Gwaine says easily, paddling his hands to bring him higher in the water and closer to the shallows.

Gareth stands abruptly and backs away. “I’d really rather not,” he says, voice rising, and Gwaine shrugs, sinking back again.

“Suit yourself.”

He makes a point of disregarding Gareth after that—not drawing attention to someone overcome by their childhood fear is a kindness he knows from experience—and after a while, he doesn’t even have to try. Eyes closed, Gwaine focuses on the water’s smooth caress and shifting temperature against his entire body as the stream’s current flows through the pool. It occurs to him that it’s been far too long since he’s been naked for any length of time—yet the idleness of his thoughts is eclipsed by the sudden swell of the feeling that follows it: he misses Merlin.

The feeling itself is not new, and when Merlin had mentioned similar thoughts in his letter Gwaine had felt pleased. But _this_ , this sense of longing is amplified by his own sense of calmness and bliss, expanding in his throat and making his chest ache until he can hardly stand it. His enjoyment of the water is suddenly almost too poignant to bear—he wants to get up and out and march all the way back to Camelot until the feeling stops.

Instead Gwaine closes his eyes and forces himself to stay through it, and with the water touching and holding him so thoroughly, it’s easier to let his thoughts flow onward as well. To imagine Merlin there, Merlin’s limbs wrapping around him, longer and lither than Lancelot’s, and gentler. And then nothing else would matter and they could sink below the surface without need for air, the rest of the world muted out and distant above; they could settle on the soft, silty bottom and stay there forever.

Gwaine’s drawn out of the sweetly morbid fantasy when he hears the sound of voices, garbled and muffled through the water. When he lifts his head and peers to the bank, the sound becomes harshly clear, and the view unexpected. Gareth is on his feet, back to the water, bowing and shuffling before four brightly-dressed ladies, and Gwaine quickly realises: it’s the courtesans, led by Lady Bronwen.

“Sir Lancelot,” she says, looking toward the water, and even if they couldn’t see the slight curl of her smirk, the amusement is obvious in the rich timbre of her voice. “Sir Gwaine. How unexpected.”

Her tone gives the impression that she rather _had_ expected them, and Gwaine chuckles lowly in appreciation of her candour—it’s more than most members of the court are prepared to offer.

“My ladies,” he calls out from the water. “You must forgive our immodesty. If we’d known women of such high calibre would grace us with their presence...”

“All will be forgiven, Sir Gwaine,” Lady Bronwen says, tilting her chin up regally, “should you come here and kiss my hand in apology, without delay.”

The other women laugh, their faces flushed from the summer heat and round with their grins, their fans rocking to push a breeze across their skin rather than cover it from view.

Gwaine grins wolfishly and kicks towards the bank. As instructed, without delay he strides up into the shallows—legs stretching pleasantly after not having to hold his weight for so long—and forward to take the lady’s hand.

Bronwen doesn’t hide the lingering look up-and-down she gives him, and her eyes gleam with shared amusement when she meets his gaze; he doesn’t break it as he lifts her hand and lowers his lips to it.

Behind him, Lancelot clears his throat when Gwaine straightens, his voice only slightly stilted as he says, “Would that my view were so pleasant…” which, naturally, garners another round of laughter.

“Would you object if we joined you, then?” Bronwen asks, and one-handed she unfastens the clasp of the diaphanous shawl covering her bare shoulders; it slithers slowly away.

“I am sorry, my Lady,” Lancelot says, more politeness and less jest, this time. Gwaine turns to watch him emerge from the stream—face pinked despite the coolness of the water, and his hands cupped between his legs. “We can remain nearby, to provide guard while you bathe, but will leave you to your privacy.”

“Surely you do not need to be so far,” she says, just as polite. Her invitation is not as salacious as many Gwaine has received—certainly no more than Gwaine’s was to Lancelot and Gareth to join him this morning. It strikes a chord of kinship within him: this woman is far from home as well, making do as best she can, and largely succeeding with her unconventional tactics.

Lancelot bows his head, somehow managing to appear entirely proper despite being naked. “It would be for the best.”

“Another time, perhaps,” Gwaine allows, unable to keep a note of apology out of the polite refusal when Bronwen looks in question to him, and her smile holds a little regret, but also understanding.

“Ah, how noble the knights of Camelot…” she says wistfully, and begins to unpin the dark, coiled braids of her hair.

Gwaine takes it as their cue to do as they say, and he scoops up his clothes and follows Lancelot towards the horses, fairly certain he’s not imagining the light smack of a fan on his rear as he passes the women. His suspicions are confirmed when he casts a coy look over his shoulder, getting another round of giggles in return.

They pointedly face the other direction as the sounds of splashing and shrieks of delight rise from behind them; even Gareth hunches close to one of the horses, checking the saddle straps with intense concentration. Gwaine can’t help but prolong his nakedness for as long as possible, peeling away the few long, yellow licks of willow leaves from where they’ve clung to his legs as he’s left the water, and trying to ignore the increasing chill of air on his wet skin. It would be different if he were lounging in the sun—he could dry off a lot quicker—and he casts a glance back over his shoulder.

“Do you want to?” Lancelot asks him softly, noticing his look. When he meets Gwaine’s eyes his expression is frank and nonjudgmental, and Gwaine’s almost disappointed that he can’t find his answer there.

He thinks of sinking below the water with Merlin wrapped around him; sweet, airless bliss. He almost can’t breathe just imagining it, and it’s exhilarating. He shrugs and pulls his trousers on, heaving them up against the friction of his wet skin. “Perhaps another time,” he repeats.

◊   ◊   ◊

  


> _My dear Merlin,_
> 
>  _Your most recent letter has occupied my thoughts without pause since I first read it. I feel selfishly pleased to know that you miss me so, but my own longing serves to take me down a peg—at times I do feel I am truly suffering through our separation. My own heart fills up with wanting, as do other parts of me too—and thinking of you both eases and antagonises the ache. Were our communication a little less likely to be read by others, I would share some of the ways I’ve imagined demonstrating how much I’ve missed you. Perhaps you could imagine some too, and we can compare notes when next we meet._
> 
>  _You asked for tales of the court—well, I have one that concerns politics, but it is a case of the court coming to us, I'm afraid. You'll remember I told you of Gareth’s burgeoning interest in Lancelot. Well, I finally forced Lancelot to acknowledge the attention and address the boy directly. While Gareth responded with neither anger nor floods of tears, he was certainly skulking around miserably with his tail between his legs for some days afterwards, and could barely look Lancelot in the eye. Consequently, he has been spending more time with me—which I can't help but think is proper, as he is my squire after all—but I'm afraid I've yet to offer him any advice. Despite what you say about me being ‘sorted’, I’m not so sure that I’m qualified for such a discussion, considering the near-inept standard of my own courting._
> 
>  _But, I can practically see you rolling your eyes and telling me to get to the point. How does this scenario in any way involve politics? Well, because Ector and the lords of the court have agreed that Camelot’s knights should take young Escetian nobles as squires. The strategy seems fair, given that one of Ector’s first rulings was to send all the precious noble sons to the kingdom’s outlying towns, to provide long-deserved protection from the scavengers on the borders. But the result is as you suspect: Lancelot has gained a squire, and I don't know if it’s because of jealousy or the fact that the boy is, quite frankly, a spoilt little snot (see, Lancelot's lessons in gentle language have been paying off for me), but he and Gareth have been fighting like dogs virtually since the moment he was assigned. A day doesn't pass that we don't have to haul them apart by the scruffs of their necks, and even Lancelot’s patience is wearing thin. Though that could be partly my fault—on occasion I do use the opportunity to give Gareth pointers on how to take down an opponent using only his fists. I am convinced the animosity will not last very long, though. Brattish as he is, Erin’s anger and sullenness are not so misplaced—he was orphaned by this war, and he now faces a future in the land that caused his father’s death (or so he believes). His situation is not so different from Gareth’s, and their similar ages makes him a far more suitable companion for Gareth than Lancelot or I._
> 
>  _Which brings me to your next question quite neatly. You are correct—I did not leave my uncle’s house amicably. It is not a topic I tend to share freely, but while it brings me no gladness to recall, I am glad to share things of my past with you, and hope deeply that upon learning more of me, you will not find me wanting._
> 
>  _My mother was from the Western Isles, and once my father died, she returned to her family there. Just as she had been unwelcome in Caerleon, so too was I in her brother’s house, though not as overtly. I was only a child, but old enough to have imprinted a bearing and manner of speaking that was foreign to the children around me, and while I quickly adjusted to better fit in, the matter remained: I was not of their land. Or of their family—they never accepted my mother’s marriage, and my existence was perpetual evidence of it._
> 
>  _The few tales my mother told me of my father left me baffled as to why she still wished so strongly to fulfil what he had asked of her, for he was not a kind man. Above all else he wanted heirs to carry on his legacy, and she strove to instill in me the desire to fulfil the promise of my noble blood, even as my cousins’ scorn—and uncle’s disregard—convinced me I never could, should I ever even want to. After she died, I could not stay in that place—I had no reason to, after all. Upon discovering I no more belonged in Caerleon, I took up my habit of seeking excellent taverns and dangerous quests throughout the land, and have not travelled across the sea since._
> 
>  _So there you have it. I am a little sad I could not provide you with a tale of hijinks—which I am convinced you have more of, and that perhaps you are not so keen to share. I am curious, though, if you will forgive the question—you said you met your father briefly before he died, and that he had been banished. Yet also that you and your mother are not of Camelot. Was your father banished to Camelot, and this is why you only met him recently? Did your mother part with him on unfriendly terms, and that's why you did not join him from the beginning?_
> 
>  _Please do pass on my regards to the ridiculously besotted pair you seem to be spending most of your time with, and I hope you continue to think of me just as fondly, if with less bluster._
> 
>  _I remain your devoted dolt,  
>  Gwaine_

  


◊   ◊   ◊

  


> _Dearest Gwaine,_
> 
>  _I’m not sure you’re aware of how difficult it is to read your letters. I’m unable to even open them at least until I’ve returned to my room and made sure Gaius is absent, because your words make me want to run from here to Escetia without pause, just to laugh with you, and touch you, and, more than anything, kiss you. I’m not sure you’re aware of just how long it takes me to read your letters._
> 
>  _And I do not think you’re being entirely fair on yourself—after all, it isn’t your fault that it took me such a long time to recognise your courting for what it was. I am merely speaking plainly when I say it is my lot in life to stand invisible behind Arthur. I am not resentful of this; he will be a great king, but that’s just the thing: you swore your fealty to Arthur, as it should be. And so it took me a considerable amount of time (and extreme measures—don’t think I’ve forgotten that picnic) to realise that your attention was also upon me._
> 
>  _But you must forgive my introspection. I am truly sorry to hear of your mother’s death, and the trials you both experienced after your father’s. I had assumed that he was a man whose example you sought to emulate. I see now the truth of the matter, and many of the principles you hold so passionately become more clear to me. For what it’s worth, it seems you are carrying on the legacy of your family—remaining true, as your mother did, to your chosen principles and above all, enduring. I admire you a great deal for it._
> 
>  _My own father was not banished to but from Camelot. As you may have surmised, given my age, my mother and he parted ways during the Great Purge. My father was not a magic user, but his profession was irrevocably tied with the tenets of sorcery. My parents both fled the kingdom, but being formerly in the employ of King Uther, my father was pursued. My mother settled in Ealdor to bear and raise me; my father, condemned to his fate as a fugitive, was never able to join us. I knew nothing of this growing up, and I feel filled with remorse to say now that I had interpreted her reticence to speak of him as shame in my origins._
> 
>  _As to how I met him… in recent years it became apparent that he would be of use to the King again; Arthur and I rode out to find him, and it was only shortly before we set out that Gaius told me the truth of my relationship to the man we were seeking. He was killed in a fight on our way back to Camelot. No one but Gaius knows the truth of this—not even Arthur, or Gwen. I implore you to not speak of it to anyone else; I fear the history of my family as enemies of Uther will force me from Arthur’s side, be it by imprisonment, banishment or worse. I am certain I can trust you with this, but you must forgive me for asking it of you anyway, if nothing but to set my mind at ease. I have told no one else._
> 
>  _Perhaps I am being overly cautious, but you’ll recall the boy I told you of being imprisoned some time ago—well, Arthur has been relieved of the onus of executing him. The lords who continue to share Uther’s views on magic held Arthur’s reticence up as evidence in the accusation that Arthur is subverting his father’s rule. Though they did not present it in such bald terms, of course—no, they are far too skilled in hypocrisy, accusing others of ignobility just as easily as they excuse themselves. Needless to say, Arthur was backed into a corner—Uther could never suffer magic users to live for longer than a handful of days, once captured—and a pyre was laid in the square. Shortly thereafter the boy himself managed to escape without a trace, thank god. But this is not over, I fear. There is unrest stirring, and I worry for Arthur, should he be forced into such a situation again. Until he’s crowned, I cannot see him having any other choice but to condone such punishments._
> 
>  _I am greatly entertained by your tales of Erin and Gareth, which I’m sure you wickedly intended. Though, even knowing the state of unrest in Escetia, I suppose I did ask to be entertained. I do hope that by the time this reaches you, they will have made amends and become friends. I also hope that as you read this, you’ve not felt the colder strains of autumn just yet. Gwen arranged the making of the enclosed winter cloaks for you and Lancelot. You should also find a few more bits and pieces enclosed, if the messenger hasn’t ‘lost’ them on the way—the sweetmeats are direct from the royal kitchens, and Geoffrey tells me the writing set is one of the best money can buy (that is from me—the cloak and gloves are part of Arthur’s determination to deck you all out as finely as holly boughs)._
> 
>  _I fear that the coming winter will hinder the passage between our two cities, and we shall not have the luxury of sharing such frequent missives. Perhaps this is good fortune in disguise, for I think I could spend all my waking hours filling books with words for you, and send a whole cart of them for you to read while I wait for your responses—all the while neglecting my duties, of course._
> 
>  _But—I oughtn’t tell you this, and yet, and yet…_
> 
>  _Arthur is speaking in a very veiled manner of what might happen after winter, should the establishment of his rule in Escetia proceed as hoped and prove successful. Ector’s wife and sons will be sent over, and more knights to relieve the duty of some already there. It is best you keep this from the others; I have no wish to disrupt the flow of Arthur’s command, but perhaps you can think of this to keep you warm on the coming winter nights, as I will._
> 
>  _Yours,  
>  Merlin_

  


◊   ◊   ◊

  


> _Merlin, Merlin—_
> 
>  _I write this quickly, now, as you’ve set the fear of snow upon me and I am anxious that my response will not reach you soon enough. But any amount of time feels too long, now that I think of you reading this alone in your room, thinking of me, imagining me there. The writing set is beautiful. As I sit here and write, I stroke the glossy black feather against my fingers and imagine your hair; I stroke it against my lips and imagine your kiss. I’m not sure how I’ll keep the quill unsullied, except by reminding myself that you have touched it before me._
> 
>  _Perhaps I’m too effusive, but you’ve set me alight. I don’t want to write pages about Lancelot or the happenings of court, I want to write words that make you shut yourself away, unsuitable for company; or make you trek across the kingdom to make me fulfil them. I can barely sleep for thinking of things I want to say and do to you, and it’s probably for the best that Gareth has taken to sleeping in the garrison on occasion, for if I’m not lighting a candle to pore over parchment, I’m pushing away the bedclothes to imagine your touch on me instead._
> 
>  _It feels as if you have been kissing me slowly senseless for months. There are so many things I want to do to you. Shall I list them? Perhaps you could carry out my wishes, and tell me how it felt in your next letter, and it will be a little like I am there, only a month or two distance between us. Or perhaps I’ll not make a list, but describe this to you: I come home, unexpected. In your room you’re sitting at your desk writing a letter to me. I creep behind you, and you’re not wearing your scarf because it’s still in my pocket, so I draw the feather of this quill along the side of your bare neck. You gasp, and arch toward me, and I follow the touch with my mouth. You taste so good, I can tell how much you want me just from flavour of your skin on my tongue._
> 
>  _Are you touching yourself now? Your own quill on your throat? You may imagine my mouth on you, anywhere you wish, and you can hold me to that when I come back to you. You may hold me to anything you want. Where do you wish the story to go? I have imagined taking you to your bed, or simply kneeling before you as you remain in your chair, or kneeling as soon as you stand to greet me (I stroke the quill feather against my lips now). I remember how you taste, and how you felt in my arms, those last few moments we had in the stables. Sometimes I imagine what might have happened if you hadn’t stopped me, if we’d had more time, your body eager and willing against mine, pressed against the wall behind you._
> 
>  _Send me your cart of letters. Send for me and I’ll come home to you. Now that I know, I don’t know that I can wait until the end of winter._
> 
>  _Yours,  
>  Gwaine_


	4. Part Four

“So you’ve not moved to the garrison for good, then,” Gwaine observes, entering the room to find Gareth sitting cross-legged and unexpected on his rarely-used cot.

Gareth’s mouth twists. “Erin says that’s where the real men sleep.”

Gwaine raises an eyebrow. “Really,” he says drily. “I suppose real men enjoy rations for meals, and sleeping twenty to a room.”

“I—” Gareth says, jaw working. “Yes, I suppose.”

Gwaine smirks. “Suit yourself. As long as you’re always about when I need you.”

Gareth rolls his eyes, and Gwaine feels grateful anew that they’ve come to a more comfortable accord since the whole pining-for-Lancelot fiasco. Gareth treats him with more camaraderie than resentment, and subsequently they’ve managed to establish an easy rapport where Gareth actually seems to be _learning_ something. And teaching Gwaine a little more about each bit of his suddenly-massive amount of armour, as well.  

Gwaine smirks and goes to peer out the window at the weather; but Gareth tenses as he passes, drawing his attention back down. And then Gwaine feels doused in cold water, because there are familiar squares of folded parchment on the cot behind Gareth’s back, ineffectually hidden. Gwaine’s snatched them up before he’s even thought about doing so, all heat in his body retracting to his pounding heart, even the sensation of the letters in his hands feeling distant.

“Why the _hell_ do you have these?” he snaps at Gareth, needing to check to make sure all the letters are there but needing more to put Gareth back in his place, to gauge his response to reading them—to find out if he _did_ read them, or if Gwaine interrupted him before he could begin.

“I—I just wanted—” Gareth stutters, the familiar out-of-his-depth flush staining his cheeks. He can’t meet Gwaine’s eyes, and Gwaine feels his stomach drop. “I was just curious. I wanted to know—”

“Well, I hope you’ve satisfied your curiosity,” Gwaine spits, knowing that handling this delicately is going to end with the best results, but feeling so keenly the violation of his privacy that he can’t stop from lashing out.

Gareth’s face screws up, and he meets Gwaine’s eyes. “But they just… didn’t make sense. Why?”

He seems so honestly befuddled, reaching out to Gwaine as if he’s trying to share a laugh about it, and Gwaine recoils, unable to interpret it as anything but derision. And derision is not the worst response one can get to being discovered as having a male lover, Gwaine knows very well from experience—but perhaps he’d lost his scepticism with Lancelot being so easily accepting, and forgotten what the rest of the known population was like. Especially amongst the nobles, who like the best of both worlds—wooing ladies publicly and with great acclaim, and keeping lovers of the same sex relegated to illicit, never-acknowledged meetings. Gwaine feels sick.

“I don’t expect you to understand,” he sneers at Gareth. “But if you value the use of your limbs, leave before you find out just _how_ dirty I can fight.”

Gareth’s eyes widen in fear, and it’s his innocent obliviousness as to how hurtful his assumptions are that stings the sharpest. The door swings half-closed behind him, and Gwaine slams and bars it before sitting back on his bed, letters held gently in his shaking hands.

He shouldn’t be so affected—he shouldn’t, he knows it, but again, it’s _Merlin_ , and anything that concerns him spears Gwaine straight to the heart. The letters are precious, and the thought of someone else reading them—of touching Merlin’s scarf in order to unwrap and discover them—makes him feel both enraged and close to tears. It’s ridiculous.

He shuffles the letters back into order, then carefully unfolds the one on the top. _I’m not sure you’re aware of how difficult it is to read your letters_ he reads, eyes skimming automatically before he has to fold it closed again, and close his eyes, too. He swallows hard, and thinks of the letter he left in the seneschal’s hands two weeks ago.

What is he doing?

There’s a soft knock on the door. Gwaine hurriedly casts around for the discarded scarf, and upon finding it wraps the letters again, and quickly unloops the chain from his neck to unlock the writing set using the key strung upon it. He sets the letters in carefully—where they ought to have been, instead of in more easy reach of his bed—and checks three times that the set is locked after it.

The knock sounds again, and Gwaine scrubs his hands over his face and stands, opening the door. Lady Bronwen is standing in the hall—unusual to see her in this wing of the castle, to say the least. She dips in a very brief curtsey, and Gwaine nods in return. “My Lady—”

“Sir Lancelot,” she murmurs. “Have you seen him?”

“I have not,” Gwaine says. “Have you tried—”

She walks forward, and Gwaine has no choice but to back away and allow her to enter the room. At her nod, he closes and bars the door behind her.

She stands in the centre of the room for a moment, looking around—at Gwaine’s bed, Gareth’s cot, and the polished wooden box of the writing set, still left out. She walks to the window, looks out, then walks back to face Gwaine.

“Sir Gwaine, I know you know of my role in Cenred’s court,” she begins, voice low and grave.

“King Cenred’s court is no more, my Lady,” he hedges, reluctant to have her reveal herself, even to him, after so long in hiding.

Her mouth lifts in a small, humourless smile. “It is as you say,” she counters. “Therefore it is in your best interest that you listen to what I have to say, and pass on the particulars to your superiors.”

Gwaine dips his head in acquiescence. “Very well.”

She takes a deep breath, glancing to the door one last time before returning to him. “Conspiracy is afoot,” she says. “My place in court is no longer as powerful as it used to be—when all Camelot required was news of Escetia’s king. Now the men who would only dare look at me plot your downfall, and I hear merely whispers of it from my ladies, teased from their lovers.” She looks at him sharply, jaw firming. “Who they are loath to name.”

Gwaine nods again; he can allow them that much. “What can you tell me?”

“Only not to trust those from the west—they have the most to lose in Escetia’s annexing.”

It’s nothing Ector doesn’t already know, Gwaine’s sure—even he’s been aware of the animosity of a particular group of lords, and matters of court are more likely to put him to sleep than anything else.

Yet Bronwen appears genuinely agitated. Enough to risk her secrecy coming here to speak with him.

“I will pass on the message,” he assures her.

Her lips press tightly together, and she searches his gaze for a moment longer. “See that you do,” she says, and after a moment of listening at the door, she sweeps away again just as silently.

◊   ◊   ◊

The collars of the new cloaks are fur-lined, as are the soft leather gloves, and autumn is fickle in her moods, so Gwaine seems to alternate between uncomfortably hot and deliciously warm. The cloaks are also large enough to fit two shivering squires beneath when the temperature drops as the four of them are out on patrol, and when Lancelot returns from his defensive circle of their campsite—emerging from the darkness into the firelight silently as ever—he looks questioningly at Gwaine. Gwaine shrugs, arms tucked tightly about himself, and Lancelot gives him a sympathetic smile. Then he sits close enough to cover Gwaine’s night-chilled back with his own excessive drape of cloak, their fronts uncovered but warmed by the fire. Nearby, Gareth and Erin are one red-covered hillock. Their heads tuft out of the top, close enough to share the fringe of fur; Erin’s dark skin is pressed to Gareth’s fair, and they both glow in the firelight.

The fire cracks and pops, and Lancelot sighs beside him. “Are you feeling sorry for yourself because you’ve been spurned?” he murmurs at length, quiet enough for only Gwaine to hear.

Gwaine scowls. “I don’t know why I should share anything with you, given that you’ll tell me nothing of your own _paramour_.”

Their shoulders are already pressed up against each other, but Lancelot leans in to nudge him firmer. “You’re not exactly very good at hiding it.”

Gwaine bristles, and this time he’s inclined to _not_ suppress his immediate defensiveness, as he has so often done in deference to Lancelot’s wisdom these long months. “Well, you’re certainly not very good at reading it, so I suppose I have nothing to worry about,” he mutters.

“I know I’ve said this before,” Lancelot returns levelly, “but it bears repeating: there’s no need to take it out on Gareth.”

Gwaine glances over to where both squires are wrapped in _his_ cloak, and looks back at Lancelot pointedly.

Lancelot purses his lips. “There’s cruelty in avoidance also,” he says lowly. “You’ve barely acknowledged him for weeks.”

When Gwaine looks over again, it’s to find Gareth looking back, though he glances away quickly upon meeting Gwaine’s gaze. The old, familiar recoil at the judgement turns over, sore and aching, in Gwaine’s chest. “Are you suggesting he’s shifted his attentions to me?” he deflects, forcing a laugh under his breath. “Are you suggesting I accept them?”

“Don’t be obtuse,” Lancelot says quietly. “It doesn’t suit you. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

Gwaine heaves a deep, reflexive sigh, and Lancelot leans a little closer as he settles, but doesn’t speak again.

“When did you last receive a letter?” Gwaine asks at length, staring into the fire, feeling Lancelot breathe beside him.

“Some weeks ago, now,” Lancelot says hesitantly, then with more conviction, “At the turn of the season. Arthur mentioned that their messenger route may be compromised by the change in weather.”

“Arthur?” Gwaine asks, momentarily distracted by this unexpected tidbit. Though Merlin had mentioned Lancelot’s missives to the Prince, back then it had been easy to construe them as knightly devotion. Lancelot himself bringing the communication up in this context gives it a whole new layer of potential meaning. He turns to look at Lancelot’s inscrutable profile.

“Yes,” Lancelot says stiffly. “I hear from both him and Guinevere.”

Gwaine turns back to the fire to ponder on this in silence. After long moments, his petulance has softened enough that he feels compelled to share something of his own. “Gareth read my letters,” he says without inflection.

“Ah.” Lancelot’s tone holds no salacious enjoyment at the news, or even that much surprise. After a few moments in which Gwaine can almost hear the wheels of his thoughts turning, Lancelot says, “I meant what I said—long ago, now—about having this opportunity to shape his behaviour and opinions. He’s not exactly _Erin_ , after all.”

Erin, who—now he’d finished antagonising Gareth with brash, barely-veiled declarations about the virtue (or lack thereof) of the knights and royalty of Camelot—spends much of his time expounding his unsubtle opinions on people he’s unimpressed with. That being anyone who isn’t noble. Gwaine thinks Erin might have a conniption should he find out Lancelot’s true origins.

Gwaine grunts noncommittally in response to Lancelot’s reassurance—he doesn’t want to give Gareth’s rejection any more power than it already has over him by sharing that disappointment any wider. After a moment, Lancelot nudges his shoulder again. “You didn’t bring any wine, did you?”

Gwaine frowns. “Kay confiscated it before we left,” he admits sadly.

“Ah,” Lancelot says again, and lets a waft of cold air into the warm covering of the cloak when he crooks his elbow up to reach into a pocket. “Good thing I brought this, then.” He brandishes a small, road-battered flask in the space between their bodies—hiding it from the squires’ view—and when Gwaine looks up to meet his eyes, he looks decidedly mischievous.

“I knew there was a reason I was keeping you around,” Gwaine says, enjoying the honey-burn of the spirit as it goes down his throat. Lancelot laughs softly, accepting the flask back and taking a quick swig. The drink spreads warmth in Gwaine’s belly, reaching out to Lancelot’s body at his side, and the fire in front of him, soothing his nerves and the ever-present knot of loneliness.

“This was never going to be longer than a year, you know,” Lancelot says quietly, after they’ve passed the flask back and forth a few more times.

“It feels longer already,” Gwaine says morosely, and holds the next mouthful a little longer on his tongue before swallowing it down. He thinks about Merlin’s unsanctioned news of possibly being back in Camelot by spring, and wonders if Lancelot learned the same in his letters. Yet he feels like the past few weeks of sadness and uncertainty have flayed a layer off him; he feels too raw to even consider being home again.

“It will end,” Lancelot says, and perhaps it’s meant to be reassuring, but it doesn’t feel like that to Gwaine.

◊   ◊   ◊

Gwaine’s fingers are numb in his gloves, tightening stiffly as the harsh clash of steel reverberates up to his shoulders. His hair has gathered sweat then chilled against his neck, and he clenches his teeth, just wanting this to be _over_ —with that burst of impatience, he parries and forces forward before his opponent can regain his footing, disarming him with a little more deliberate force. The man crashes into the icy mud underfoot and Gwaine grimaces in sympathy, sheathing his blade before offering the knight his hand.

Gareth’s standing by the sidelines when Gwaine trudges back through the mud, and Kay gives him a small nod when Gwaine glances to him for permission. Gareth’s lips are practically blue, hands tucked under his arms and shoulders hunched up to his ears. Gwaine frowns, and makes note to locate warmer clothes for the boy—perhaps even a cloak of his own.

“What is it?” Gwaine asks as he approaches.

Gareth chews his lips and shivers. “The seneschal would like to see you, when you’re finished,” he says, as quickly as possible.

“Very well,” Gwaine says. “Get back inside.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Gwaine watches him pick through the soggy grass and adds new boots to the list of things to obtain. He’s not even sure if he’s the one responsible for addressing the needs of Gareth’s latest growth spurt, but it’s not as if his coin is being used up in the tavern, either. He’ll ask the seneschal.

“Sir Gwaine,” Kay barks, and Gwaine turns and flexes his shoulders again, walking back onto the field.

 

The seneschal hands him a letter, and Gwaine’s chest constricts as he sees the familiar inked shape of his name on the front. He feels strangely reluctant to open it, and when he gets back to his room, relieved that Gareth is absent, though it’s not exactly unexpected. Even before the confrontation over the letters, Gareth had been spending much of his time in the garrison; he’s only been making himself scarcer since. A servant has been in to light the fire, though; Gwaine pauses to stoke it and add another log before finally taking the letter out of his pocket again.

The fire warm at the back of his legs and his hands clammy, he turns the letter over to open it, but pauses when he sees the seal—not the usual crudely stylised bunch of herbs that is the mark of the court physician, but the more detailed and very familiar twist of the royal dragon. Gwaine runs his fingers over the grooves of it as if to make sure his eyes aren’t deceiving him, and his weary heart feels heavy in his chest as he considers what it might mean.

Then curses himself for a coward—an overly cynical one, at that—and quickly breaks the seal away from the parchment and unfolds the letter.

>  _Gwaine,_
> 
>  _I must make this brief at Arthur’s request, as he is indeed reading over my shoulder this time. You, and the rest of Camelot’s emissaries in Escetia, are in mortal danger. We have learned of a conspiracy against you, coming from within the court itself. The messenger is untrustworthy; he will have brought a letter for Lord Ector telling him of an invasion in Camelot, and instructing him to send the knights home. This order will appear to have come from Arthur, but it is not: the forgery is a ploy to lure you out of the city to be ambushed in the woods on the western road, leaving those in the castle unprotected._
> 
>  _You must convince Lord Ector of this, and formulate a plan that keeps your knowledge of the conspiracy hidden. Arthur believes this is the only way to uproot the perpetrators from the court and disarm them, preventing any further harm being wrought upon you._
> 
>  _Do not doubt the veracity of this letter. I hope that you can forgive my not telling you this earlier, but the letters I’ve sent you—both this one, and all those in the past—bear an enchantment that obfuscates the contents and makes them senseless to all readers but you. Any letters you write to me with the writing set I sent you are similarly bespelled. I confessed this to Arthur and he agreed that it was the best way of conveying this message to you. If you need to prove this to others, show them Arthur’s seal—the one on the forgery will be slightly different, as will become obvious through comparison._
> 
>  _I am sorry. Please take care._
> 
>  _Merlin_

Heart racing, Gwaine skims through the letter again as if expecting to see the words shift on the page and make more immediate sense. Then he stops, and has to sit on his bed, eyes closed and breathing deep for a long moment before reading again, more carefully.

Then he goes to find Lancelot.

Lancelot frowns at the letter. “‘The radishes are especially fragrant this year’?” he reads aloud, and raises an eyebrow at Gwaine.

Gwaine has to sit down again. He takes the letter back and reads it once more: the words are the same. _I am sorry. Please take care._ “Merlin says it’s enchanted so only I can understand it,” he says.

Lancelot’s expression shifts from one of confusion to dawning understanding. “I didn’t realise he’d told you,” he says, sounding greatly relieved. “We should warn Ector immediately. Kay is going to need to know as well; we should speak to them both at the same time—before Ector reads his letter and decides to take action.”

“You didn’t realise…” Gwaine repeats slowly, comprehension stuck on that first statement, and the tone of Lancelot’s voice behind it, and very quickly the ideas that had been drifting slowly together snap into place.

“Merlin enchanted the letter,” Gwaine says with blank realisation. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Lancelot halt his pacing. Gwaine can’t look away from the parchment though, from Merlin’s familiar handwriting. “Merlin has magic.”

He does look up at Lancelot, then, disbelief and betrayal rising thickly in his throat. “You _knew?_ ”

Lancelot bows his head, pained. “I couldn’t tell you,” he says, voice thick with apology. “I promised him I—”

Gwaine jerks to his feet and takes a few tight, directionless steps across the room, turning his back to Lancelot. He tips his face up and gives a strangled laugh, not knowing how else to loosen the tightly-coiling tension within him without destroying something.

“Gwaine,” Lancelot says, voice full of pity, and when Gwaine whips around Lancelot’s standing closer behind him.

“Don’t. You— You’re both—” Gwaine shakes his head sharply, trying to dislodge all the words clamouring for release and shove them back down for another time. “We need to speak with Ector,” he says firmly, and Lancelot nods, eyes worried and mouth tight.

 

It takes blessedly little convincing for Kay and Ector to believe the truth of the letter once they’ve compared the seals, and Gwaine feels weak with relief when they don’t question the origin of the enchantment—or question it at all, really, beyond making Gwaine read the letter aloud three times to prove he’s not concocting the message himself. He feels a whole new sense of respect for Arthur’s choice of whom to send to Escetia in the first place. But then his thoughts careen into a different direction entirely when he remembers something from one of Merlin’s letters: Arthur backed into a corner, and Uther not standing a magic user to live once they’d been captured.

God, Merlin was worried at the weight of consequence should Arthur discover his family’s past relationship to magic— _imprisoned or banished or worse_ , he’d said—and now… now Merlin has told Arthur he’s a sorcerer.

Lancelot’s hand on his shoulder startles Gwaine from the turmoil of his thoughts, and he blinks quickly, finding Kay and Ector watching him.

“We must behave as though we know nothing of the conspiracy,” Ector says, low and firm.

Gwaine nods jerkily. “Yes, my Lord.”

“They will expect us to act immediately. And that our guardsmen in the castle will be easily overwhelmed.”

“The hardest part will be ensuring our men are prepared without alerting the conspirators to our awareness,” Kay adds.

Ector nods. “I will stay to lead the men in fighting off dissidents within the castle,” he says. “You three must proceed on as if to Camelot, and be prepared to fight off the ambush.”

“And if their ambush is one of arrows from the trees, rather than engaging in direct combat?” Gwaine can’t help but ask, feeling bitterly aware that knights do not always behave so nobly as claimed.

“You may split up,” Ector says. “Be seen to be leaving the city together, and separate once you reach the woods.” He looks from Gwaine to Lancelot. “You are both good woodsmen, and ought to be able to locate and approach them without too much difficulty.”

“And the squires, my Lord?” Lancelot asks, and Gwaine hadn’t thought it was possible to tense further, but apparently it is.

“It will not be seen as suspicious should they be left here in safety,” Ector says. “If it comes to it, they can lend their swords to the fight here. Three knights should be able to travel with greater speed alone, after all.”

Lancelot bows his head in acknowledgement, and Gwaine feels shaky with relief—as doomed as this situation already feels, at least he won’t be worrying about Gareth amidst it all.

“Should the lords participate in the attack, try to capture them alive,” Ector continues. “Even if you cannot gain their surrender. The King will want their punishment to serve as an example to others.”

Of course. Gwaine’s stomach turns over, thinking of all the public examples Uther’s made of prisoners throughout his rule, burning alive and drowning and beheading, and _Merlin, Merlin_. His long closeness to the King’s son would surely not be forgiven.

 

He and Lancelot assist each other into armour—hopefully enough to protect them, but not so much as to rouse suspicion when they leave the city. They do so quickly and without speaking, bodies tense as they strap on their outer shells.

“He did not confide in me,” Lancelot says at length, quiet and hesitant. “It was purely by accident that I discovered his secret.”

Gwaine shakes his head shortly, though Lancelot’s confession eases some of the twisting ache in his belly.

“It doesn’t matter now,” he says, even though it does. Because they might be going to their deaths with this—more and more likely when he considers that they are three up against however many dissidents there are, from the west and perhaps elsewhere as well. And while the thought of dying in this helpless and miserable state is bad enough (and even Gwaine recognises the foolishness in numbing it even with the smallest dram), there’s no need to make Lancelot suffer the same.

But Lancelot doesn’t stop at Gwaine’s silent urging, and when he says, “I’m sure he would have told you,” it lands like a punch in Gwaine’s gut.

His skin crawls with the humiliation of it; that he’s opened himself so deeply to Merlin in these past months, made clear that he’d hold nothing back—and all the while Merlin was keeping this from him, the largest secret. He wonders just how much of what Merlin had told him was true, or whether it was just a foil for this bigger truth. He wonders what Merlin must have thought of him, and the twisting in his stomach threatens to rise to his throat.

He steps away from Lancelot. “We ought to speak with Gareth and Erin—we can’t simply ride off and tell them nothing; we wouldn’t even if we were heading for Camelot.”

Lancelot nods—expression still taut and concerned—and slings his empty pack over one shoulder before preceding Gwaine out the door.

Gwaine’s not sure if he’s surprised or not that Gareth resists being left behind—he would have put money on Gareth wanting to spend as little time in close quarters to him as possible. But on the other hand, remaining in a strange land while war rages in your own kingdom is not a fate Gwaine would like to be served. Erin’s sullenness is as predicted, though; Gwaine’s just relieved he doesn’t come out with any slurs as to how much Camelot’s invasion is deserved, though his mouth seems pursed tight to hold it back.

Gwaine realises belatedly that he’s forgotten to ask the seneschal about new clothing for Gareth, and hopes desperately that the boy won’t freeze to death in coming months, should Gwaine do as they’re pretending and not return after all. Gareth’s eyes on him are still confused and hurt, even weeks on, and—

Understanding hits Gwaine on a wave of giddy relief: it makes _sense_ now, if the letters Gareth read were enchanted—then no wonder he didn’t understand why Gwaine was treasuring letters about radishes and who knows what else.

Gwaine almost laughs at the realisation, but thinks perhaps it wouldn’t help matters very much at all. Instead he plants his hand firm on Gareth’s shoulder—feeling a stab of guilt at the look of surprise and trepidation on Gareth’s face—and says, squeezing, “Take care. Try not to let Erin get up to too much mischief in our absence.”

Gareth looks more confused than anything, but Gwaine’s fairly sure he’s not imagining the slight softening and relief around the boy’s eyes. “Yes, Sir.”

 

They speak little as they ride out, each mired in their own thoughts and anticipation of the upcoming fight. Gwaine can’t see how it can end well, and keeps his mouth shut. The tension amongst them tightens as the western road approaches the woods, and Gwaine is grateful for the small mercy that no one else is on the road as they pause within sight of the trees.

“I will linger,” Kay murmurs lowly, “to give you a chance to locate the site of the ambush. Once you have, give the signal.”

Gwaine and Lancelot nod, and before they go their separate ways, Gwaine meets Lancelot’s eyes and they exchange small, grim smiles.

He rides out wide of the road, following the sound of a small brook nearby—sprung up with the melting of the first snow—and leaves Cabrion tied loosely by its banks. Then he makes his way back toward the road.

The trees are bare and stark against the white sky, though luckily most of the leaves form thick mulch underfoot, far from the loud crunch of autumn. For all that he’s silent, Gwaine doubts he’d be hidden should any of the ambushers look in his direction: the red of his cloak a veritable beacon. Still, there is enough undergrowth—and the occasional holly bush—to duck behind should he catch sight of them first.

It feels like he’s wandering interminably, but as the ground begins to rise—and he recalls the cut of the western road from the last time he travelled on it—he takes more care to be hidden from sight, recognising the strategy of choosing such a position for an ambush. Surely enough, he hears the tell-tale sounds of human interlopers as he skirts around the edge of the slope, and settles down behind a low-lying shrub to peer upwards through its spiky foliage.

He counts six men—armed and wearing muted colours, no emblems but dull chain mail over grey and brown tunics, weapons already drawn. Gwaine grits his teeth, recognising at least two of them as they turn to signal to each other; Sir Andras’ pale hair seems particularly white in the crisp light. A bird call rings out—not uncommon, but familiar in Gwaine’s ears—six on Lancelot’s side as well. After a few beats he returns it.

Within moments he hears the rhythm of a horse approaching in the distance, and as the men ahead of him still and poise, he draws his sword as quietly as possible, creeping further up the slope. At the least opportune moment, a flaw in their plan occurs to him—that upon seeing Kay appear alone, or even upon merely hearing his approach, they will realise that Lancelot and Gwaine are elsewhere. Perhaps they’ll be lucky, and the dissidents will think the sound of a single rider means that it is not their prey approaching after all.

At any rate, Gwaine doesn’t have a chance to find out, because a shout comes from the opposite side of the road along with the sound of clashing weapons, and as the men ahead of him stand to better see the cause of it, Gwaine powers forward the final few yards.

One turns to meet him, the sound of Gwaine’s approach too short a warning to properly raise his sword in defence. On some level Gwaine is glad they are already prepared to fight, for he doesn’t know if he’d be able to stab any of them in the back with their swords still sheathed, outnumbered or not. They’re not prepared _enough_ though—at least not for an attack from behind—and he’s already downed one and is on to his second when two of the remaining men break off to run down the bank towards Kay.

Kay’s horse whinnies, high and indignant. Gwaine’s opponent is joined by another, the third clearly waiting for an opening, and they drive Gwaine back onto unsteadier footing, heels at the edge of the slope. When the third man steps forward to engage it’s finally enough to force Gwaine back, and then he’s tumbling downwards—desperately trying to keep hold of his sword and avoid impaling himself at the same time—and rolling to his feet on the road, breathless and engaged immediately by the same men as before, running down behind him.

It’s Andras facing him now and Gwaine quickly disarms him, then uses the hilt of his sword to strike him a harsh blow, knocking him to the ground. Gwaine’s unsure if he’s being merciful or not by sparing Andras for Uther’s punishment instead of giving him a quick death. Kay is fighting fiercely, having been unseated, his horse skittering back from the smell of blood: one of his opponents is half-beheaded on the ground, slumped brokenly on the black leaves. Lancelot is yet to make an appearance but Gwaine can still hear the sound of fighting from above and it gives him hope. Another man runs down, this time from Lancelot’s side, bellowing as he does so and deflecting Kay’s anticipatory thrust easily as he gets to the road.

Gwaine struggles to keep his back protected as he’s encircled, thoroughly outnumbered by men who seem unwilling to make further contact with his sword—waiting instead for him to take the offensive, leave himself open for attack. He twists his sword in a wide spin—a trick learnt from Arthur, both warning his opponents off and goading them with a blatant show of his range—but then the bitter tension is broken by the sound of another horse approaching.

The men lurch forward abruptly, as if spurred on by the potential of an evening of numbers, but are quickly scattered by the new arrival, galloping around the bend in the road at full pelt. The horse rears and shrieks at suddenly finding an armed man under its hooves, and the horse wins out—another broken body—but unseats its rider. Gwaine curses loudly and viciously: it’s Gareth, brandished sword knocked out of his hand as he falls to the ground and out of sight.

Getting through the barrier of armed men becomes more urgent then, and Gwaine lets instinct take over as he cuts and parries, peripherally aware of more men thudding down the hillside with red-cloaked Lancelot sweeping behind. He takes a couple of blows that he barely feels, mostly protected by the mail, and grateful for Sir Leon’s lessons in how to fight without the ridiculously long cloak getting in the way.

Then it’s over—three disarmed men kneeling before Kay, who’s clutching his sword with a wavering, blood-soaked hand; Lancelot in pursuit of the final pair on foot through the trees. Lifeless bodies sprawl on the ground at Gwaine’s feet, their stillness odd when even Gwaine’s breath roils in the air as he pants with exertion. The horses remain nearby, steam puffing out of them too as they paw uneasily at the wet ground.

And Gareth—Gareth on the ground near where his horse dumped him, struggling to rise onto his elbows and failing, blood as bright as Gwaine’s cloak seeping through his too-thin tunic.

“Idiot, idiot, _idiot_ ,” Gwaine chants through clenched teeth, skidding to a halt next to him and kneeling on the wet leaves, dropping his sword by Gareth’s side, reaching for the neck of the tunic with intentions to tear it away and ascertain the extent of the injury. Gareth rears away at the ripping of cloth, pushing himself back against the cold earth and then clawing at Gwaine’s vambraces when he discovers he’s too hurt to get away. Then his sharp little boot knife is close to Gwaine’s throat, his teeth bared in a snarl, lips and face white.

“I’m not about to ravish you, you little fool,” Gwaine snarls back, jerking out of reach of the dagger and slamming Gareth’s wrist to the ground, disarming him easily.

Gareth thrashes, trying to bend around and kick. “Stay _still,_ ” Gwaine commands, and Gareth finally does, panting and still glaring bloody murder up at him. His wrist strains in Gwaine’s grip, his other hand pressed tight against the growing bloodstain.

It’s harder to uncover the wound one-handed, but Gwaine manages with some fumbling to get the rough tunic out of the way, and the softer shirt beneath.

His first thought is that Gareth is already injured, and that’s why his chest is bandaged, but then he sees the sweeping gash all up Gareth’s side. It’s cut into the linen already binding his chest, the cloth loosening and slipping away, blood soaking into its hewn edges, but Gwaine can still see what’s revealed beneath it—the unmistakable curve of a breast.

He jerks back in shock, though his grip on Gareth’s wrist tightens instinctively; Gareth flinches. Gwaine can’t help but look down his body, then, but Gareth’s loose, rough trousers show nothing and hide everything. The always-uncovered smoothness of his jaw and throat is more revealing then; the fine, noble angles of his face seeming more delicate than ever. He looks miserably up at Gwaine, chest still heaving, then closes his eyes, turning his head away.

Gareth is losing more colour, Gwaine realises, and despite the fact that he’s still reeling, he lets go of Gareth’s wrist to bring both hands instead to examine the wound. A few more rips of the tunic, and it’s forming a makeshift bandage around the worst of it; Gwaine keeps his hands as far away from the other bandage as possible.

“Don’t tell them,” Gareth whispers, the first time he’s spoken, and when Gwaine looks up, Gareth’s staring at him with desperate intensity. “Please. Please. I can explain.”

Gwaine can’t help it: he presses a soothing hand to Gareth’s forehead, and the boy hitches out a voiceless sob when Gwaine nods.

By the time Lancelot approaches them, Gareth is wrapped soundly in Gwaine’s cloak. Lancelot’s leading his horse as well, and he helps them both into the saddle, Gareth held carefully before Gwaine.

“You’re a brave fool,” Lancelot tells Gareth worriedly. “How did you even know we were here? Or were you just riding after us?”

“Erin told me,” Gareth mumbles, head wobbling on his neck as he teeters on the edge of a swoon. Gwaine meets Lancelot’s eyes with an equal amount of concern at that particular piece of news, but it can wait; he spurs the horse onwards.

“Who else knows?” he murmurs into Gareth’s ear when they’re well out of the woods, feeling every unsteady breath Gareth takes through the arm wrapped low around his chest.

“The Lady Bronwen,” Gareth slurs, and Gwaine has to duck his head low to hear it. “Couldn’t hide it from her.”

◊   ◊   ◊

The lower town is almost as deserted as the first day they rode into it, and there are signs of combat in the castle’s square that are yet to be blotted up with sand. There’s the sound of fighting somewhere in the castle, but Gwaine disregards it as he hurries Gareth into the wing he visits rarely. His own body aches and stings in various places, but the lingering fumes of combat prevent any of them from taking too much of his attention, though he stumbles a little as he needs to dip and scoop Gareth into his arms to make it up the stairs.

He pounds on Bronwen’s door, and when she wisely doesn’t answer, shouts, “My Lady, _please!_ ”

The door finally cracks open, and Bronwen peers out at him, holding an ornate dagger with a wicked point. She quickly lowers it and opens the door wider when she sees Gareth in Gwaine’s arms.

Bronwen leads him to the low couch by the window and he gently sets the boy ( _boy_ ) down. He’s unconscious now, and Gwaine kneels beside him.

“Wait here,” Bronwen instructs, resting a hand briefly on his shoulder, and when she returns with a basin of warm water and begins unwrapping the makeshift bandage, Gwaine looks away.

“You can look again,” Bronwen says at length, and Gwaine’s eyes skitter over the clean drape of cloth she’s laid over Gareth’s breasts. Bronwen hands him the wet cloth she’s been using to mop up the blood. “Help me with this.”

He rises creakily to his feet and stumbles to join her on the opposite side of the couch, feeling the weight of each chain of his mail, and when he drops to his knees again he winces at the impact. Bronwen gives him a wryly sympathetic look, and directs him to blot away the blood as she sews up the gash.

“Did you know?” she murmurs at length.

Gwaine blinks, mesmerised by the assured movements of her dark hands against Gareth’s overly pale skin. “No,” he croaks, and Bronwen sighs.

“So much of survival relies on keeping secrets,” she says, voice still calm and flat with concentration. “I don’t think I’d like to walk around with my insides out for all to see, anyway. Certainly not amongst this many vultures.”

Gwaine’s mouth twists weakly in agreement, and he stares at the soft flesh of Gareth’s belly, drinking in each tiny rise and fall as he breathes shallowly.

At last she ties off the silk thread, leaving a long row of dark stitches along Gareth’s skin. Setting the needle aside, she gestures for Gwaine to assist her again. Though feeling clumsy and reluctant, at her request he kneels around to the opposite side of the couch again to best brace Gareth’s back as she sits him up enough to wrap fresh bandages around his torso.

“I used to do this for my husband,” she confesses, tone light. “He always said my needlework was better than the surgeon’s.” Despite the humour, there’s a low note of grief in her voice, and Gwaine smiles a little but doesn’t press for further information.

Bronwen pulls the red cloak back over Gareth at last—taking a last few moments to dip the cloth in the basin again and wash the last traces of blood and dirt from the boy’s face. Then she looks up at Gwaine again.

“You’re hurt.”

Gwaine rises to his feet as she does—though by the time he’s made it to standing, she’s already walked around the couch. He finds he’s struggling to process her meaning, but when she cups his jaw with her hand and tilts his head to the side, pain burns brightly, sharpening his focus.

“Sit down,” she says, dragging out a low seat from her dresser and pressing Gwaine down onto it, then deftly unknotting his belt and tugging the chain mail loose. “I used to do this for my husband too,” she says as she lifts the mail up and off him, then gets to work on the gambeson.

Gwaine responds with a hiss of pain—with the sudden receding of weight, a cavalcade of minor hurts make themselves known. A spot high on his shoulder, at the base of his neck where his collarbone angles up, burns particularly; it’s a place that would have been protected by a coif, had they been able to properly armour themselves without causing suspicion. It’s there that Bronwen focuses her attention, easing the gambeson off his shoulders and pulling aside the collar of his shirt.

After a moment of examination she steps away, gathering the basin from near the couch and moving out of Gwaine’s sight again, the pad of her footsteps soft on the stone floor. He catches a glimpse of movement and turns to see that it’s him—reflected in the sliver of visible mirror, mostly draped over with a fine cloth on Bronwen’s dressing table. Mirrors being a rarity in both the nomadic lifestyle and that of a knight, it’s been some time since Gwaine’s caught sight of his own reflection with such clarity. The covering means he can only see half of his face—long hair matted with blood that spreads darkly down his undershirt, and his expression blank with exhaustion.

“I can wash this,” Bronwen offers, setting the fresh basin on the dresser, her cool fingers easing his bloodied hair away from the wound. The steam quickly obscures the glass of the mirror, leaving Gwaine just a dark blur of colour; somehow it makes him feel less disconnected than his reflection did.

“No,” Gwaine says, voice rough from not speaking. “Cut it off. If you have shears?”

Bronwen smiles. “Better than the surgeon’s,” she says, reaching over him to tug open a drawer in the dresser, retrieving the hefty steel implement from within. She gives the shears a demonstrative snip in the air, then begins to cut.

The sound of it is loud in Gwaine’s ears, the occasional cool brush of steel against the back of his neck prickling shivers across his skin. Bronwen crosses from one shoulder to the other, then her firm fingers rub against the nape of his neck. “How short?”

He remembers the feel of Merlin’s hands on his face, Merlin pushing his hair back to kiss him, Merlin’s fingers against his scalp. He turns his head a little to feel the brush of hair against his skin, and remembers the sight of himself moments ago, bedraggled with blood. “Shorter,” he says.

“In the Roman style?” She pushes her fingers gently up the back of his skull, and sensation shivers through him as she touches him like he hasn’t been touched for months. “Seeking to emulate your King?”

“Not that short,” he recants.

She laughs softly, continuing with more care; Gwaine closes his eyes as she trims around his face.

“There,” she says at last, setting the shears back down again.

Gwaine turns his head and it feels lighter, even as the movement stings; when he touches the sore place at his neck his fingers come away wet.

“If your vanity is quite satisfied, I’ll take care of that, now,” she says drily.

The warm water makes him shudder; it feels amazingly good after so much cold and tension and pain, and he has to force himself not to hunch around the hollow of his chest. The bathing cleans away the worst of the sting as well, leaving him with a dull ache that seems to settle in the base of his throat. She doesn’t stitch the wound, but binds it firmly, and Gwaine takes a shaky breath as her hand smooths over the bandage and then up onto the bare skin of his throat. He looks up at her—kind eyes staring down into his—and her hand strokes into his hair again. She smiles, searching his eyes, and then leans down to kiss him.

The knot in his throat tightens and swells, fed by the soft feel of her lips on his. It feels like an age since he’s been touched with gentle fondness like this, having made do with the muted fervour of fantasy for so long. The sensation rushes over his skin like the wash of warm water, spreading down his chest and up his legs, making his bruises ache and cuts sting.

“I assume you did that for your husband as well,” Gwaine murmurs after he pulls away from her, feeling more alert and aware than he has in hours. His hand has come to rest on the curve of her waist, her skin warm through the woollen drape of her gown. He wants to tighten his hold, to move his hand and touch more of her body, to pull her down into his lap… But more than that, he wants something else entirely.

“My lady,” he says, angling his head to press his forehead to hers instead when she leans in for another kiss. “Thank you.”

She sighs, laughs a little, and manages to sneak in another quick press of her lips below his eye before straightening; his hand falls away with a little regret. “Knights of Camelot,” she says ruefully, and turns away.

◊   ◊   ◊

Erin and Lancelot both seem keen to spend a lot of time with a convalescing Gareth—Erin uncharacteristically attentive—so it’s a few days before Gwaine gets a moment to speak with him alone.

“What am I to do with you now?” Gwaine begins.

Gareth’s expression tenses and shifts into the same old mulishness. It’s the familiarity of it that Gwaine’s struggling most with. He still can’t make himself think of Gareth as _she_.

As if he’s read Gwaine’s mind, Gareth retorts, “Same as you’ve always done. Nothing’s changed. I’ve not changed.”

Gwaine thinks that’s rather oversimplifying things, but concedes to the fundamental truth of it. After all, it’s that Gwaine knows now that changes things.

“What’s your real name?” he asks.

Gareth’s jaw firms stubbornly. “I’m not telling you.”

“Why not?”

“Because then you’ll want to call me that, and I’m not! I’m not her, I’m Gareth!”

“All right, easy.” Gwaine holds his hands up as Gareth struggles to rise. “Don’t do yourself any more damage.”

“And I’m not fragile, either.”

“No, you’re just a disobedient little fool.”

“I was _helping_ you!”

Gwaine huffs a sharp breath out his nose, forcing himself to put the argument aside. “How did you come to be here, then? Are you a spy as well?”

Gareth rolls his eyes and Gwaine has to agree: the theory makes little sense.

“No. I just want—I just want to be a knight. I’m not here to cause any trouble.”

“Is that why you insist on going against my every order, then?” Gwaine asks pointedly, and Gareth scowls.

“I will tell you,” he says, biting off his words. “My father died before I came of age. My family was never wealthy to begin with, and King Uther would only provide us with a pension should our family continue in service to him. My mother and I decided that when I came of age, I would be sent to Camelot to be squired—a handmaiden’s wage would never be enough to support both her and my sisters, and I had no wish to be subject to someone else’s whims for the rest of my life. We were far enough away from the King’s scrutiny; I’m sure he cared not a whit whether my father had sons or daughters. All I needed was a letter bearing my father’s seal, and no one questioned anything.”

The story resonates—so close to Gwaine’s own, and makes him realise abruptly just how fortunate he was. Caerleon’s king had been crueller than Uther in that respect, perhaps—withholding a pension regardless of the existence of heirs—but at least Gwaine’s mother had family to go to, and ultimately, very little personal sacrifice had been required of him.

Gareth can tell he’s softening; his voice lowers to an earnest plea. “Please don’t send me away. It wasn’t forced on me. I _want_ this.” He pauses, chews his lip. “I like being your squire.”

Gwaine laughs, and Gareth’s mouth twists into a wry smile in response.

“You speak as though you’re not subject to _my_ every whim,” Gwaine counters.

“Yes, well, Sir Kay made it clear to me that there were some I _could_ refuse you on,” Gareth says slyly.

Gwaine snorts and shakes his head, and on that topic, it occurs to him: “What is there between you and Erin?”

Gareth pulls a face. “Nothing at all, he’s a pompous ass.”

“He’s rather attentive, for nothing but a pompous ass,” Gwaine points out.

Gareth frowns, expression turning more serious. “He feels guilty,” he says softly. “His family was from the west. He heard of the plans for your ambush, and feared for you.”

Gwaine leans back in surprise—if what Gareth is saying is true, then perhaps Erin’s constant bluster was only that after all.

“Please don’t tell him about me.”

“I won’t,” Gwaine says, sighing deeply, realising just how much he’d already given in to Gareth’s wishes, before the conversation even began. “So long as you don’t go getting yourself into any… _trouble_.”

Gareth’s lip curls in childish disgust. “As if I’d _want_ to!”

“Well, from the way you’ve been looking at Lancelot…”

Gareth reddens. “Nothing to say of the way _you_ have,” he retorts, then snaps his mouth shut quickly.

Gwaine laughs again, and Gareth slants him a sideways look, calculating.

“Why were you so angry that I read all your vegetable letters, anyway?” Gareth asks curiously.

Vegetable letters. That explains just what Merlin’s words had been enchanted into. Gwaine smirks, projecting an air of elusive mystery. “That, my boy, is a tale for another time.”

“But I just told you—!”

Gwaine points a finger at Gareth. “Squire.” He points to himself. “Knight. The orders only go in one direction.”

Gareth scowls again, crossing his arms as he sinks back to the bed, but his mouth is twitching as if he’s resisting a smile.

◊   ◊   ◊

The dissidents linger in the castle dungeons—the traitorous messenger, a handful of knights and lords captured by Ector and his men in the castle, and those who staged the ambush in the woods. Andras is one of the few left alive from that encounter, and despite the man’s betrayal—and his persistent contempt for Gwaine even before then—Gwaine feels uneasy at the thought of him being subjected to Uther’s form of justice. Though he wonders if some of the prisoners might die from the cold before they can even face it.

A new messenger—one of the guardsmen who’d marched with them from Camelot—rides back at great speed the day after the uprising is quelled, and a little over a week later he returns, bearing orders.

There’s no letter from Merlin; but then, Gwaine’s not sure why he was expecting there would be. He hadn’t sent one with the rider to Camelot, after all.

Now that the conspiracy has been revealed and the violent suppression of it over, the tense occupation it provided Gwaine has burnt away, leaving him to dwell on the means Merlin had used to convey the warning. Doing so leaves him feeling tender and raw, for not only did Merlin not trust him enough to share his secret without his hand being forced, but the disclosure placed his life in danger. And being an entire kingdom away, there’s nothing Gwaine can do about it. The thought that there could be a more dire reason for Merlin’s silence, than merely waiting for Gwaine to speak first, makes Gwaine’s stomach knot painfully and bile rise in his throat.

When Gwaine is called to Ector’s rooms for a private meeting a few days later he’s not surprised—for Ector has surely spent the time since the uprising ruthlessly re-evaluating the Escetian court, and just which of the nobles he can trust in their claims of loyalty. Gwaine feels on edge himself; likewise suspicious anew of anyone but his fellows from Camelot.

Lancelot is already waiting when Gwaine arrives, and he casts Gwaine an apologetic look. That’s not unusual either; Gwaine has barely been able to bring himself to speak with Lancelot more than politeness demands since Merlin’s letter, humiliation and jealousy crawling unpleasantly under his skin when he thinks of what Lancelot has known all along. Naturally, Lancelot is infuriatingly empathetic; Gwaine finds himself wishing fervently for the brashness of Elyan, or the stoicism of Percival—anyone who would just let him get on with his self-pity and resentment without any kind of sympathy.

It’s a relief when Kay strides in hurriedly, and Ector begins. “It is the King’s wish that the lords who led the uprising are to be taken to Camelot for execution,” he says without preamble. “But he is also aware of our precarious state. When the roads are safe enough to send reinforcements in return, Sir Lancelot will escort the prisoners to Camelot, along with two of Lord Maris’ sons as a sign of good will.”

The solid block of ice that seems to have taken up permanent residence in Gwaine’s gut turns painfully. It’s just like the other time—called into a room to listen obediently while a noble tells him what will be done with him—only this time Gwaine’s staying rather than going, and the sinking feeling is stale disappointment rather than frantic loss. He still can’t talk, though. Perhaps that’s what knighthood has done to him: stoppered all reasonable protest and turned him into another voiceless piece on the board.

“And the other imprisoned knights, my Lord?” Kay asks.

“It is the Prince’s wish that they be forgiven, should they seek to make amends.”

They bow in acknowledgment of Ector’s orders, and he dismisses them.

Lancelot catches Gwaine’s arm in the corridor outside, and Gwaine braces himself.

“I’m sorry,” Lancelot says, and doesn’t disappoint expectations; the frank concern in his eyes makes Gwaine twitch out of his grip.

“It’s nothing,” Gwaine dismisses. “Better you than me.” And he’s not entirely sure it’s a lie.

Knowing Merlin is magic causes no waning of Gwaine’s affection, but Merlin’s silence has twisted it into something painful. Gwaine was stripped bare by the last words he penned to Merlin, and remains so as long as that letter is left unanswered. He doesn’t _know_ what kind of welcome he’d get, should he return to Camelot in Lancelot’s place—and his sickening worry that he’s overstepped the boundary of what Merlin’s willing to share with him continually contorts back bitterly onto itself, for how could he be so preoccupied with such a thing when Merlin’s very life is at risk?

“Gwaine,” Lancelot murmurs, lower. When Gwaine tries to step away and walk on, Lancelot _herds_ him into an alcove, one of the few free of the empty suits of armour. It’s probably the most impolite thing Gwaine’s ever seen Lancelot do, and surprise keeps him in place instead of shoving free. “The Prince won’t let anything happen to him.”

“You seem sure of that,” Gwaine says bluntly, more than a little rude himself.

“I am,” Lancelot says simply. “I know Arthur.”

“Well, _undoubtedly_ you know him better than I,” Gwaine bites out, and pushes past him and away.

Head bowed as if he deserves Gwaine’s acrimony, Lancelot doesn’t stop him.

◊   ◊   ◊

Not a week later, the skies become dense with snow. Thrust up high on the rock, the castle is wreathed in air that’s suffocatingly cold and damp; Gwaine feels the perpetual ache of it in his chest. The snow doesn’t cease for another week after that, and with a thick shroud of white across the kingdom—as far as Gwaine can see from the castle, anyway—the faint hope for another messenger arriving from Camelot dwindles.

Unlike the autumn rains, the snow falls silently, and indeed its thick blanket seems to insulate the citadel from any sound at all; the mood it projects vacillates between eerie and peaceful. With his hair mostly shorn away, the winter chill breathes that much colder, and Gwaine sleeps with his cloak spread over his blankets, Merlin’s scarf tucked around his neck. It seems foolish to treasure it as something kept apart, when it may serve this more practical purpose as well; it doesn’t lose its preciousness by being kept so close.

The cold is still enough to disturb Gwaine’s sleep; on the tenth day since the snow began, he wakes with his bones aching with it. Before he can think on it too long, he pushes out of bed, double-layer of stockings barely protecting his feet from the icy stone of the floor. He gathers his cloak around him, nestling the fur collar up around Merlin’s scarf, and looks to Gareth: the boy is just a blanket-covered lump, not even his hair exposed. Breath visible before him, Gwaine hurries to the fire, coaxing it back to life. When it’s crackling warmly again, he turns to go back to bed, and discovers there’s a letter on his pillow.

His breath freezes painfully in his chest at the sight of the familiar shape of his name on the parchment, and the blob of wax is hard and icy against his fingers when he turns the letter over.

>  _Dear Gwaine,_
> 
>  _Forgive me if I cannot do this every time. I am uncertain if this will reach you at all—the spell is one I haven’t tried before, and although Arthur knows now, he has forbidden me practising magic in the castle. I suppose I should be relieved that I’m not in the dungeons, as far as reactions go. I hope you can forgive me for not telling you of my magic earlier, especially as you now know that my letters to you were in no risk of being read by another._
> 
>  _All that aside, I am so very relieved to know that you are safe. And must belatedly thank you for your last letter—I am not as capable at articulating my desire for you, I’m afraid, especially when the things you’ve written steal my words away, along with any hope of coherency._
> 
>  _I hope you are able to write again soon, and that you are keeping warm._
> 
>  _Yours,  
>  Merlin_

“What’s the matter?” Gareth mumbles, and Gwaine starts, forcing his breath to steady. The boy is still mostly swaddled by blankets, his eyes bleary with sleep, but he is peering at Gwaine with curiosity nonetheless.

“Nothing,” Gwaine whispers, clutching his own blankets tighter around him, trying not to let in any of the chill while still holding the letter far enough back that he can read it. “Go back to sleep.”

◊   ◊   ◊

Gwaine keeps the letter locked in his writing kit for the better part of a week. A childish part of him feels resentful that any delay of his reply will be attributed to the weather, given how agonising the wait had been for Gwaine, and just how comparatively effortless it had been for Merlin to end it.

Even when Gwaine finds himself taking out the letter again, it’s as if he’s hardened since he last read it. Instead of sending him into trembling relief as it had the first time, Merlin’s blithe politeness now provokes him into obstinacy. Gwaine finds himself stomping around the castle in a foul mood—not helped by the fact that he is confined there by the weather, as are its other inhabitants. In fact, antagonising those around him seems to be one of the few things able to distract him and provide the slightest relief in tension. Gareth—who usually matches Gwaine’s obnoxious goading with his own prickly stubbornness—is driven first to snapping back, then to outright shouting; and then at last into storming off to seek Lancelot’s company instead.

Then, finally, Gwaine feels ready to pick up his quill again.

>  _Dear Merlin,_
> 
>  _I will not deny that since finding out about your magic, I have found myself questioning why you kept it a secret, to be revealed only reluctantly in the direst of circumstances. Surely I have made it clear that it would not be something I held against you? When Lancelot told me he already knew, I felt a fool, thinking back on how long he had known more about you than I, when I had thought otherwise._
> 
>  _But you must know that even now, knowing that no others will read this, writing acknowledgment of your magic on parchment makes me sick with worry. Whenever you have spoken to me of magic in your letters, it has been to talk of how dangerous it is in Camelot, and how ruthless Uther’s champions still are in their persecution of magic users. Even if Arthur has not turned you in, he has forbidden you from practising magic—probably for your own safety—and yet, you spell a letter to my pillow._
> 
>  _I know I cannot ask you to share everything with me; to give up secrets you wish to remain hidden. But please, please do not endanger yourself when I am too far away to have any hope of protecting you._
> 
>  _Yours,  
>  Gwaine_

Gwaine’s reply stays in his pocket for over a week. Not that he hasn’t walked past the seneschal’s door several times in his endless, brooding circuits through the castle’s dim corridors. His glower warns off any who try to make conversation, until his only companions are the decorative suits of armour: blank stares silently mocking through their empty eye slits, hollow carapaces gleaming in the oily torchlight.

Lancelot’s jaw is tight when he approaches Gwaine again; and this time, he doesn’t try to soothe Gwaine with gentle words. Nor does he confront him in anger, which Gwaine’s half-hoping for, instead just stating plainly, “There is a messenger going to Camelot in four days. Do you have anything to send, or shall I pass on in my letter to Guinevere that you’re still alive?”

Gwaine’s not easily cowed, but he does feel immediately lighter upon handing over the letter. Lancelot doesn’t seem surprised, by the letter or Gwaine’s truculent expression.

◊   ◊   ◊

It’s more than a month later—a month of the kingdom smothered with snow, the castle stale with irritatingly familiar faces, and Gwaine’s stomach twisting with nervous anticipation—before another messenger returns, dragging himself half-frozen through the courtyard as Gwaine watches from the battlements.

>  _Dear Gwaine,_
> 
>  _You must not think yourself a fool—nor that I share more of myself with Lancelot than with you, for that could not be further from the truth._
> 
>  _But you also mustn’t think that I need protecting. I have survived in the royal household for years as Arthur’s servant, practising magic without Uther’s knowledge, even when he had all his wits about him. It is not the fact of my magic that I wished to keep from you; of course I know that you would not betray me. Rather, I’ve feared that the deeds I committed during my time in hiding would surely change your opinion of me._
> 
>  _For my past is not unsullied, and as much as I have been in an agony of indecision over sharing it with you, I fear I must now, lest your opinion of me worsen merely through my continued secrecy. I have blood on my hands: seen death and despair both directly and indirectly caused by my actions, and the choices I have made. Hiding in Uther’s household has led me to betray countless others, and my interventions against my own kind have perpetuated suffering that I myself have escaped. Not to mention the constant, profound deception of the people I care for most._
> 
>  _How could I have shared this with you, knowing the regard you held me in? How can I accept courtship, when these stains on my character remain so indelible? I am not like Gwen—pure and virtuous, destined to be matched with a similarly noble spirit._
> 
>  _I fear, so greatly, that you will not be as inclined to hold me in your affections upon discovering these things about me, for all that it’s a reaction I deserve. From our first meeting I felt a kinship with you, and since then the feeling has grown into something much greater. Your achievement of knighthood has brought me nothing but joy, but I do not want to lead you away from the honourable path you seek to follow._
> 
>  _I hope you will still feel inclined to write to me, but if you should not, please fear no repercussions—I will respect your decision, even as I treasure what we have had._
> 
>  _Yours,  
>  Merlin_

Gwaine reads it again immediately, even as the words wrench harder the second time. They make him recall every moment he’d made an attempt to woo Merlin with chivalric gestures, seen now with a fresh lens of what Merlin had been hiding from them all; not just his magic but the things he’d done and regretted so deeply, that he’d had to bear alone.

And of course, Gwaine cannot help but return again to how Merlin had thought Gwaine would react to learning of it, the feeling like the catch of a hangnail on yanked fabric. For all that he feels almost overwhelmed with the depth of what Merlin had been keeping secret, those assumptions sting—that Merlin would think him so fickle.

Though the afternoon is already darkening into night—hurried along by the low, wet cloud shrouding the castle—Gwaine lights the torches and takes out his writing instruments, resting the parchment on the closed lid of the kit.

>  _Dear Merlin,_
> 
>  _You called me an idiot once, and I feel I should return the favour now. Of course I still feel inclined to write to you, though I am beginning to understand Arthur's frequent exasperation and urge to throw things. Perhaps it was when you fetched me for a jaunt in the Perilous Lands that any remaining thoughts I might have had of you as a helpless maiden were dismissed, if they were ever there to begin with. If you'll recall, when we first met we were both bludgeoning thugs over the head with jugs of mead; don’t think that I’ve forgotten that particular kinship either._
> 
>  _Perhaps in knowing that, you can forgive my protective instincts: the only thing I’m really very good at is swinging a sword, and I can’t help but want to swing it at any hint of a threat to those I love. And though last time I told you this you denied it quick as you please, the truth of it remains: you are the reason I am a knight of Camelot, and so long as you are in Arthur's service, so too shall I remain. The only path I wish to follow is the one I walk with you beside me, whether it is in the service of your King or not._
> 
>  _I do not doubt that whatever deeds you've committed that rest so heavily on your conscience, they were in service of the greater good that you pursue in serving Arthur. Do you think I would hold you to different standards than I hold myself? That just because Arthur has touched his sword to my shoulder, that the blood on my own hands merely washes away? Since we have begun writing to each other I have killed, and not for the first time—just the first time it has been sanctioned by a King._
> 
>  _I hope that you in turn do not think less of me for stating it so baldly. I have spoken to you before of my belief in what constitutes an honourable existence—and it has very little to do with birthright or knighthood. In fact it was the moment when you sought me out to go and rescue Arthur—a quest far beyond the duties of a prince’s manservant—that truly turned my heart to you, from cherished friendship to something far more. Your choices there were made free of the expectations of others, and I find that the opposite of reprehensible, despite what you may think._
> 
>  _Maybe we are both deluded; maybe we are both murderers justifying our crimes. But even if you thoroughly believe this—which I don’t think you do, for you seem to care for me, and I have committed no less atrocity than you—it will not drive me from your side. If we are villains, then let us be so together, and we can run away from noble Camelot and live a life of crime._
> 
>  _For I would do so, if you bid me to—I long to see you again as much as ever, in fact, no: my recent fear for your safety has left me wanting you even more. You need only say the word, and I’ll leave this place and return to you._
> 
>  _Yours,  
>  Gwaine_

It’s fully dark by the time he finishes writing, too late to take the letter to the seneschal, and he lies awake half the night, unable to stop himself from turning Merlin’s words over and over in his mind, and his own words as well—wondering if he ought to cast the letter into the fire and start over.

Dawn has him wide awake and freezing again. Though he drops the letter off as soon as he’s able to cram his numb feet into his boots and get out the door, the seneschal tells him the passage is too treacherous to send a man through, and no communication will be sent until the thaw.


	5. Part Five

It’s not until nearly spring that the roads open again, ice and snow turning to slush. Without the hang of fog in the air, the view of the countryside beyond the castle becomes crisp and clear again: as the snow melts, the land gradually turns a muddy brown, with just the occasional highlight of white remaining.

As well as the re-opening of communication routes, within a week or two the kingdom’s commerce picks up again as merchants are now also free to travel between towns. After going half-mad from being shut up in the citadel, it seems that the entire city is out in the marketplace, flocking to the new visitors, who exchange news and goods from places near and far that have been equally isolated by the snow. The marketplace thrives with more people and variety than Gwaine has ever seen in it—even before Escetia was devastated by war—and he wonders if he’d be able to find evidence of a smuggler’s route into the city now, were he to look.

Merlin will receive his letter soon, if he hasn’t received it already, and Gwaine finds himself relaxing, just a little—the constriction on his heart easing as the chatter of new people washes through the city, reminding him that the way between here and Camelot is not so impassable anymore.

Many of the sellers in the marketplace are not merchants at all, but women travelled from outer towns all laying out similar wares—men’s clothing, mostly, and after associating predominantly with the male court, it’s a harsh reminder to Gwaine that so many of the villages in Escetia are bereft of their husbands and sons. But there is opportunity, too, as morbid as it feels—for Gareth’s grown enough to need a new pair of boots. His long limbs need more clothes for the new season as well, and Gwaine suspects his pride could do with the bolster of some extra winter gear to see him out through the last dregs of cold, given that he’s survived thus far on Erin’s cast-offs.

Stacking Gareth’s arms high with new purchases gives Gwaine a warm sense of generosity, and his pockets are still heavy, so he says, “Why don’t you find something to send to your mother?”

Gareth peers at Gwaine over his pile of clothes, expression somewhere between hopeful and disbelieving. “Sir, but I don’t—”

Gwaine hefts a pouch of coin and holds it out; Gareth shuffles the balance of his pile around before taking it. He looks down at it, feeling the weight in his hand, and blinks. “I couldn’t—”

“Go, before I change my mind,” Gwaine shoos. “If there’s enough, get something for your sisters as well. And a new pack for those, if you need it.”

Gareth apparently doesn’t need any more encouragement, the crowd swallowing up his slight figure as soon as he turns away.

“A noble gesture indeed.” Gwaine turns to see who’s spoken, unsure even if the comment is directed at him until he sees the old woman smiling at him from nearby. Her wares—an eclectic array of ornaments and jewellery and items Gwaine can’t immediately determine the purpose of—are displayed in a cart with open sides, small enough to be drawn by a donkey. “And you’ll be wanting to buy a gift for your own mother, of course,” she says, clearly pleased to have caught his attention.

Gwaine lowers his head. “Would that I could, madam,” he says. “She’s long left this realm.”

The woman’s mouth pulls into a little moue of sadness. “A trinket for a sister?”

Gwaine shakes his head, though he can’t help but smile at her persistence.

“A charm for your lover, perhaps,” she says, mouth curling secretively. She comes closer, taking his hand and stroking his open palm. “There are some you may be particularly interested in, for stoking her ardour,” she murmurs lowly. This close, she smells rich and smokey, the scent of long travel.

Gwaine grins, the expression feeling odd on his face from long disuse. “Ah, but my lover is not lacking in charm,” he counters easily, and can’t help but be privately pleased at the double meaning, prompted by the woman’s blatant offering of tokens of magic, even as the claim stirs unexpected warmth in his belly.

He finds himself looking over her wares again, and his eyes catch on one item in particular, as profane as it seems.

“Ah, this piece, yes,” the woman says, pinpointing the object of his gaze immediately. She draws him closer to the cart with her hand still around his wrist; with her free hand she deftly unhooks the locket from her display and presses it to his palm. “Dug up from the barrow of a fairy king. It came to me from far in the north, and was surely waiting for this moment to be noticed.”

Gwaine lifts an eyebrow at that, but has to allow her at least a little embellishment—the locket indeed seems to be tarnished by the years, a dull, unremarkable silver but solid in make, bare of decoration but for thick, scrolling oak leaves around its seam. Its chain is long enough to drop down the wearer’s chest—no alluring display on a décolletage for this piece—and not at all delicate, the thick links almost perfectly circular. He cracks open the locket with his thumbnail and rubs his thumb against the hollow inside.  

“It is a gift suited to a lady of tenacious character,” the woman encourages. “It may be one thousand years old already.”

Gwaine bargains the woman down to a price that is more than reasonable, and after reassuring her that no, he really doesn’t need a sachet of cloves and caraway to go with it, she tucks the locket into a small velvet pouch which he slips into his pocket.

“Who’s that for?” Gareth asks, appearing at his elbow. He’s got a new pack slung over his shoulder, and a pleased flush over his cheekbones. “Your mysterious paramour?”

Gwaine rubs the locket through the velvet, hand still in his pocket. “He is far less mysterious than you imagine,” Gwaine says matter-of-factly, and turns away before his serene expression can give way in the face of Gareth’s wide-eyed look, finding himself smiling all the way back to the castle.

 

Before he can lose his nerve, Gwaine leaves Gareth to take the purchases back to their shared room, and heads into another wing of the castle entirely.

Bronwen welcomes him into her rooms immediately, but he discovers she’s not alone: the other three courtesans sit in the pale sunlight by the window, embroidering motifs onto fabric stretched taut in wooden hoops. Their gowns catch the pale light brilliantly, shimmering fabric as vividly coloured as gems; Gwaine’s sure he saw pedlars showing off bolts of it in the marketplace. After the long, drab winter, evidence of these women once more benefiting from the security of their place pleases Gwaine more immediately than the dry reports of budding prosperity delivered at court had.

“My ladies,” Gwaine says in deference. “I can return another time…”

“Not at all,” one of them says, looking up and giving him a cheeky smile; Gwaine recognises it well from that day in the forest, as he does the sweeping look she gives him. “Do you know how to sew?”

“I’m afraid it’s one of the few virtues my mother neglected to teach me,” Gwaine says apologetically. “Lady Bronwen, if I may…”

She steps aside with him, and he darts another look over at the suspiciously silent women before clearing his throat. “I was hoping you might do me the favour of lending the use of your shears again,” he says lowly.

Her eyes dart to his hair—it’s growing already, and will faster again with the onset of spring; he feels far less raw than he did the first week or so after she cut it.

“You seek to pursue Roman fashions after all?”

“No,” Gwaine says. “I need only a lock.”

“Ah,” she says, the sound curling out on a slow smile. “A token, then.”

“Who is to be the recipient of such a token?” one of the women pipes up—it’s the one with the mischievous look about her again—Lady Anna, Gwaine thinks.

The goad of her raised eyebrow is too much to resist. “One whom I find words cannot describe,” he says, dipping his head humbly.

Anna laughs in delight. “A lady, then—an illicit love, perhaps? One who does not mind that you are struck dumb in her presence.”

Gwaine smirks, buoyed by the banter and feeling recklessly confident with his words, the feeling heady after weeks of moroseness. “Illicit, perhaps. Certainly not a lady.”

Another one of the women lowers her work, not even pretending not to listen any longer. “You are pursuing the Greek fashion, then?” she says audaciously.

They laugh, and Bronwen rests a gentle hand on his forearm. “You must tell us at least something,” she says. “Consider it one favour for another.”

Gwaine searches her eyes for long moments, considering. “A servant,” he allows, and they make noises of exaggerated surprise. “In the Prince’s household.”

“Surely your mother would not approve of such a match?” Bronwen asks, teasing clear in her tone.

“I can say with absolute certainty that she would not,” he admits drily. “But she has more than enough from me that ought to make her satisfied. Now, will you grant me my favour?”

She first goes to her needlework, cutting a length of silk and tying off a lock of hair near the nape of his neck. Then the shears rest in a cool line against his skin, and with one deliberate snip it’s done; she places the lock in his hand.

“Here, just a moment,” she says as he goes to tuck it away; she cradles his hand in one of hers, then strokes the tip of her finger over the thread, whispering. The tie turns from a fawny brown into bright, Camelot red.

Gwaine looks up at her in surprise, the tingle of magic sinking into his skin, and she presses her finger to her lips, smile secretive and eyes joyful.

He runs into Lancelot in the corridor outside—and Lancelot looks briefly surprised to see him, eyes darting to Bronwen’s door and back again. Gwaine closes his hand tight around the lock and shoves his fist back in his pocket, knuckles brushing against velvet.

“Is there a messenger going to Camelot soon?” Gwaine asks quickly—though not rudely—before Lancelot can say anything.

Lancelot blinks, mouth pressing into a cautious smile. “This afternoon,” he says. “Once Ector’s heard the news brought in from the rest of the kingdom.”

Gwaine nods in acknowledgement, giving Lancelot a wary smile of his own. Lancelot looks like he wants to speak again, but while Gwaine hesitates a moment longer, Lancelot only pats him on the shoulder before they both move on.

 

Gareth is still sorting through his clothes when Gwaine returns to their room. He smiles cheerfully but doesn’t otherwise comment when Gwaine sweeps in and immediately pulls out his writing kit, propping himself up on his bed and hurriedly dipping his quill in the ink pot.

>  _Dear Merlin,_
> 
>  _It occurs to me that I have been remiss in demonstrating my affections to you. Though I claimed a token from you before I left, I haven’t yet given you one in return—I hope this gift makes sufficient amends. I will tell you of its provenance when next we meet, but in the meantime I hope that it is not too ordinary, or indeed too ostentatious for your tastes._
> 
>  _Please accept it as proof of my regard, if these past letters and the effusive words they contain are not sufficient. And tell me what I must say to you in person, so you needn’t ever doubt me?_
> 
>  _Yours,  
>  Gwaine_

◊   ◊   ◊

When the first buds of new growth are beginning to unfurl on the stark trees in the castle gardens, news comes from Camelot of King Uther’s death. It’s delivered in the form of a crier who accompanies another bevy of merchants from across the kingdom, and from there spreads from mouth to ear throughout the citadel.

The official messenger arrives a few days after, with a private message for Ector and a public decree for all and sundry: Prince Arthur will be crowned King immediately and take a wife at Beltane, with supplies to be distributed to annexed territories to hold celebrations of the wedding throughout the new kingdom. On a rare evening of excess, Kay leans close to Gwaine in the tavern and tells him of the further plans Arthur has shared with Ector—that he intends to open knighthood to any who wish to try for it, and will subsequently offer those of lower birth who achieve it holdings of land in Cenred’s former kingdom.

More than anything, it’s clearly an incentive designed to remedy Escetia’s decimated population, and Gwaine thinks of Amelia of Achelon for the first time in months, wondering just how willing she’d be to give up hold over her village for a foreign lord. Then again, there may be many women more than willing to marry into the new power, with direct blessings of the King.

And though Kay doesn’t mention it, with the unofficial news comes rumours of what other changes might come of the new King’s rule—magic seems to be poised under the surface of the city, more so than Gwaine ever felt in Camelot. It’s as if hope has sprung up with the first growth of spring: there is more laughter when he rides through the lower town, now, and less people closing doors and windows as he passes. Less than a week after the news, on patrol he sees charms newly hammered above doorways, arcane twists of magic bringing the occupants good health and fortune.

The private news bears orders for Lancelot to return to Camelot with the long-imprisoned dissident lords. The news is shared in counsel with Ector again, and Arthur’s command that Lancelot return immediately is apparently adamant enough that the phlegmatic Ector comments on it. Already unsettled by the lack of letter from Merlin in the latest delivery, Gwaine feels simultaneously sick with envy and with anxiety on Lancelot’s behalf.

Although Gwaine’s winter-long snit had kept them from their usual companionship, in light of this growing realisation that they may have more in common than he’d thought, Gwaine feels empathy for Lancelot’s plight. Not that they’d discussed any similarities in situation—though Lancelot had tried with his sympathetic overtures, Gwaine recognises now with considerable regret. But if Gwaine’s assumptions are correct, then surely Lancelot is venturing into the unknown by returning—called back in time for the royal wedding, no less—and feeling in turn as desperately adrift and hopeful as Gwaine does.

A skin full of travelling wine for the road doesn’t seem a sufficient enough apology for Gwaine’s animosity these weeks past, but Lancelot accepts it gratefully when Gwaine brings it to his rooms. Erin is bustling about packing Lancelot’s armour with an almighty racket, not taking the hint of Lancelot’s exasperated looks one bit.

Finally, he clatters out the door, and Lancelot exchanges an amused look with Gwaine in the sudden silence. It eases the air between them significantly, slipping back into the space of sharing thoughts—with merely a glance, a smile, a raised eyebrow—as if they’d never left it.

“If you’d like me to,” Lancelot begins carefully, “I can take a letter for you. We leave tomorrow at mid-morning.”

Gwaine nods once, and then again, firmly; his uncertainty flaring into resolve. “Yes,” he says, meeting Lancelot’s soft, understanding eyes. He uncorks the wineskin and takes a fortifying swig before handing it over. “Thank you, my friend.”

>  
> 
>  _Dear Merlin,_
> 
>  _You’ve convinced me well enough that the minutia of knightly virtues are of little import to you; a third letter from me in a row oughtn’t be too uncouth._
> 
>  _I hope that you received my gift. The thought of it not arriving at all—especially after all the times I’ve thought of you holding it, and wearing it against your skin—is troubling. For all that I long to be as demonstrative as any soldier and his wife, or courtesan and her lords, or king and his maidservant—who each marry, court and kiss under the benevolent gaze of those around them—I have no wish to place you in a situation that would compromise your position in Arthur’s household. I had hoped that the locket (while not too pitiful an offering!) would serve as a private token between us._
> 
>  _Even were you to wear proof of my regard openly, surely the scrutiny that Arthur bears does not apply to us? And even if we were exposed, I have no family to discredit; and what would those hostile lords care of who a servant tumbles, even if he is part of the royal household?_
> 
>  _I feel I could spend pages convincing you to have faith in what we share, but I’ve burnt through most of this candle already, and Lancelot leaves in the morning, bearing this letter with him. For all that I am practically itching with jealousy of him for his recall, I imagine the royal household is fraught with turmoil at the moment, and hope you are managing to keep your feet amongst it. Know that the mood here in Escetia is one of rejoicing, for all it seems morbid—and I am glad as well, for if I’m not mistaken, soon Arthur will rescind Uther’s laws, and more than anything that means an assurance of your safety._
> 
>  _Selfishly, I cannot wait for you to show me just what you’re capable of. And look forward fervently to returning the favour, of course._
> 
>  _Yours faithfully,  
>  Gwaine_

◊   ◊   ◊

A week or two after Lancelot’s departure, Sir Elric arrives—a noble-born knight Gwaine has never met before, and although he has no doubt that Arthur has once more chosen wisely, the man’s haughty manner rubs Gwaine the wrong way. He has to struggle not to be snide in response to the most civil of questions, and finds himself missing Lancelot far more than he anticipated.

Though Elric brings with him further orders for Ector, when Gwaine visits the seneschal the day after Elric has settled, there’s no letter from Merlin.

There’s also no letter with the carts that arrive shortly before Beltane, bearing food and wine and other frivolities from Camelot, destined for consumption at the wedding celebration. With that convoy comes the rest of Ector’s household—including his young sons and wife—and more than anything, their arrival is a clear demonstration of Camelot’s assuredness of its hold over Escetia.

Gwaine is expecting to be relegated to sober peace-keeping duties for the duration of the Beltane festivities—and half-convinced that it would be for the best, as the last thing he needs is copious amounts of drink to tip him into a thoroughly maudlin state—but instead Kay seems to take rare pity on him, giving him the night off. And, in mind of passing the unexpected generosity along, Gwaine makes sure that Gareth knows he will be attending also.

Gwaine gazes out the window of their small room while the boy scrubs his neck and face in preparation. The countryside ashore is awash with the approaching indigo of twilight, the craggy hillsides and valleys dotted with the bright orange beacons of Beltane fires. There’s one lit in the gardens of the citadel already, and though it’s not visible, the smoke from it is sharp in the air. The primal scent of it mingles with the sweet smell of the bough fixed above their doorway, its sap sticky around the nails and soft flowers drooping.

Gwaine moves away from the window, impatient, and sits on the edge of his bed instead, fixing a dour gaze on Gareth in an attempt to hurry him up. Ordinarily Gwaine wouldn’t be so fussed, but Merlin’s long silence rattles him, and leaves an unpleasant prickle under his skin that he itches to numb with drink.

Gareth pauses in his ablutions and stares back, unmoved, and Gwaine doesn’t miss the quick flit of the boy’s eyes over his torso before he looks away again. Gwaine smirks; for all he feels on edge, it’s immensely freeing to not be wearing full regalia in chain and cloak, especially when it’s temperate enough that his favourite shirt—soft with wear and comfortable in the loose drape down his chest and arms—is perfectly sufficient garb.

“That’s going to come off,” Gareth says, looking pointedly at the tie of Merlin’s scarf around Gwaine’s arm, and he reaches over and tugs it loose easily despite Gwaine’s instinctual jerk away; even wearing it against his skin for most of the winter, it feels too fragile for someone else to touch. Gareth ignores him, though, and with a look of intense concentration, he folds the scarf carefully into a long strip. Then he sits beside Gwaine to re-tie it, a firmer band this time, just above Gwaine’s elbow.

“You could barely dress yourself if I weren’t here,” Gareth says haughtily.

Gwaine snorts, tension easing a little with the feel of the scarf tied tight again. “I’ve managed to get dressed and undressed with far more ease for years before you came along,” he retorts.

Gareth rolls his eyes and stands, flattening his hands down the front of his tunic yet again and fussing with his belt.

“You’d do well not to drink too much tonight,” Gwaine says, a little more seriously.

“You’re one to talk,” Gareth huffs.

“Have you been to a Beltane festival before?”

“Of course I have,” Gareth says stiffly, indicating rather clearly the unspoken part of that truth: _not since I came of age._ Gwaine remembers such celebrations from his own childhood, and they generally involved being put to bed at sunset.

“Then you know what it is they celebrate,” Gwaine continues.

Gareth’s eyes dart away from Gwaine’s, settling instead on the scarf he’s just tied to Gwaine’s arm. “I can take care of myself.”

Gwaine nods. “See that you do.”

 

Gwaine’s not sure if his advice to caution goaded Gareth into it, but he seems awfully keen to ensure that Gwaine’s cup is never empty. Not that Gwaine’s rejecting anything poured into it—it’s his night off, after all—and once the rich honey-taste of the mead has thoroughly infused Gwaine’s senses, Gareth seems to hie off and out of his sight.

While the music is pleasant—mingling with the shrieks of laughter and shouted song—the company leaves a little to be desired, for drinking amongst his fellows leaves Gwaine amidst the noble fires. There are more ladies than usual, as if Ector’s wife arriving has given the other lords leave to bring their wives back from the safer manors on their estates. They wear masks to protect their modesty amongst the primal rites, though their dresses are far too fine and impractical to leap over even the smallest of the fires.

Gwaine can barely stand to look at them. The mead has unravelled the tight, anxious tension his mind had coiled into, yes… But instead of dissipating, it’s just swirling about helplessly, entangling everything he perceives. The chatter is too loud, laughter too piercing, and it cuts him deep to see the ladies cling so blithely to their men. For all that the Beltane celebration purports to excuse all manner of impropriety, none of the couples kissing and groping and giggling are of the same sex, and it makes him ache to think that there never will be, for all Beltane celebrations he might attend in years to come.

One voice rises above the others; it’s Ector, Gwaine realises after a moment, and he stands reluctantly to get a better view. The Lord’s face is ale-ruddy, and the woman propped against his side is grinning just as widely below her red half-mask, giggling as Ector lifts his tankard again. “To the new Queen!” he bellows, and the crowd gathered around him shouts it back at him with varying degrees of coherence. “May this Beltane night bear fertile fruit for Camelot!”

Gwaine can’t help but laugh quietly at that; the thought of lovely, bashful Gwen loosens the knot in his throat. He lifts his goblet and joins the second cry of, “Queen Guinevere!”, thinking of Lancelot as well as he drinks, and what the wedding night might hold for him—hoping that it’s not merely heartache. Then the fickle mood of the mead twists on Gwaine, makes him imagine Merlin perhaps drunk and happy at a wedding feast somewhere leagues away, not even thinking of him.

Casting his eye about reveals more movement than chatter away from the noble fires, and Gwaine wanders in its direction, breathing deeply to try and clear his head. The music is louder here, and Gwaine finds himself abruptly surrounded by dancers wheeling around him; he double-takes as he sees Gareth speed by, arm in arm with a red-headed girl that Gwaine thinks he recognises from the kitchens. He’s wandered into the celebration of the castle’s lower-born occupants, and the realisation improves his mood immediately.

There’s laughter and jostling at his back, then someone’s pressing against him and reaching around, tying something cool and smooth over his eyes. It’s a mask, framing his view of the dancers with deep red satin, and he turns in the stranger’s arms to find Lady Bronwen grinning at him, her own face bare.

Her hands slide down his arms to grip his hands. “Dance with me,” she shouts above the noise, then pulls him into the flow of people without waiting for a response.

It’s too loud to talk. Bronwen’s feet move fast and confident, and it’s all Gwaine can do to keep up. Once he’s found the rhythm of it—and given over enough to concede to her guidance—he finds he’s laughing helplessly, spinning inside and out with the dance and the dizziness of mead. When they finally stop he’s breathless, as is Bronwen—her chest heaving and swelling her breasts above the revealing cut of her red dress—and she bows before him, low and lordly. There are still people spinning around them, the fiddle and drum reeling on, some dancers in more intimate embraces and some leading each other away from the light of the fires.

Bronwen takes Gwaine’s hand again and they laugh at each other, but when she begins to tug him away he loosens his grip, his steps after her reluctant. Bronwen giggles, stumbling back against him. She leans against his chest and stares up at him, then reaches up to stroke the back of her hand up his cheek toward the mask. “My lady need not be shy,” she says mock-seductively, startling another chuckle out of him.

The temptation is strong, especially with even just her touch on his face filling him with a sharp longing for the kindness and intimacy it promises. But his resolve is strong, too. As if she senses it, she slides down his arm again, fingers brushing along the top of Merlin’s scarf. “You need not deliver the blow of turning me down a third time,” she says, sounding resigned. “But surely you share my wish for company, if nothing else.”

He does—just feeling her pressed warm against him is welcome comfort, if nothing else—and he purses his lips, tipping on the edge of indecision. “You must be gentle with me,” he grants eventually, making an effort to play along even as his voice feels raw in his throat.

She laughs and starts to walk backwards again, and when she tugs his hand this time he follows. The light of the fires reaches out only a small distance into the gardens, and within a handful of paces Gwaine pushes the mask off and up onto his forehead to better see where he’s going. The music becomes quickly distant, the faint melody rising on the crisp spring breeze and pulse of the drums reduced to just the occasional snap of sound. Instead the dark yields up noises of unseen people around them; breathless giggles and gasps, low moans and words murmured too softly for comprehension.

Bronwen stops and lowers herself to the ground, drawing Gwaine down with her. “Lie with me,” she says, her voice fond and familiar, clearer to Gwaine than her expression in the veil of darkness.

He stops at kneeling, wanting but not-wanting, and she sighs.

“I am capable of asking for precisely what I want, Sir Gwaine,” she says. “Please. Just rest a moment here with me.”

The grass is cool against Gwaine’s neck and bare forearms as he lies back, and Bronwen settles beside him, her breathing slowing, body emanating warmth. They stare up past the dark spear of the tower to the inky sky above, wind occasionally carrying back to them the whispered crash of waves hitting the stone far below. Footsteps thud by near them, followed by a delighted shriek and the sound of bodies tumbling to the ground, then a long stream of laughter gradually draining off into silence. Bronwen’s hand finds his in the darkness, the connection of warmth no more than that, grounding.

“Sir Lancelot wrote to me,” Bronwen says quietly after some time. “To tell me of the King’s new ruling.”

Gwaine tilts his head a little towards her to indicate he’s listening.

“King Arthur has invited me back to his court,” she says. Then, almost as an aside: “I was there when he was born, you know.”

Gwaine huffs in surprise. Her thumb strokes over the back of his hand, and he can hear her breathing next to him, feel her poised tension. “Your family?” he prompts.

“That is my choice,” she says. “He’s given me a choice, can you imagine? I am to decide what to do. I may return to the city with my family, or seek a home with them elsewhere.”

“What will you do?” Gwaine can barely comprehend her predicament—though perhaps only in relation to _family_ ; the thought of _belonging_ being held just out of reach for so long is not entirely foreign.

She shuffles closer, resting on her side to face him. “I don’t know. I don’t know what their wish will be. I haven’t seen them for twenty-five years.” The words puff against his neck, whispered and disbelieving, and in another moment her hand rests on his hair, stroking in idle comfort; he closes his eyes tight to feel it all the more. “My sons will be all grown. My daughters might have children of their own. I don’t know if they’ll even remember me.”

“I don’t know how anyone who’s met you could ever forget you.”

She laughs softly at the break in mood, then falls onto her back again, hands dropping away. “You are the worst kind of flirt,” she sighs.

Gwaine finds her hand again and presses an exaggerated kiss to it. “We can ride to Camelot together,” he declares, once he can deliver it with an even tone.

“Directly home,” she murmurs. “To your certainly-not-a-lady.”

He squeezes her hand in agreement, unable to speak.

◊   ◊   ◊

As spring drifts into summer, Ector’s court settles into a more comfortable formation. When the news from Camelot arrives that the ban on magic is to be repealed and a court sorcerer appointed, it is as if resistance to Pendragon rule never existed. With the decree finally comes a letter from Merlin, and Gwaine can barely wait to find privacy before he reads it. Though he recognises the handwriting easily, the seal on it is different again—not Gaius’ herbs, or Arthur’s dragon, but something entirely new; a tree stretching leafy branches upwards, and delicate roots downwards.

>  _Dear Gwaine,_
> 
>  _I will not speak of your last letter; instead I will save my response until we see each other in person, for finally, finally Arthur has plans to bring you home. With the change to the laws on magic, Arthur is renewing Camelot’s alliance with the druids, which will culminate in a ceremony at Midsummer. It is to attend this that Arthur is calling you back, and taking the opportunity to invite any magic users of Escetia who wish to participate._
> 
>  _Two knights and their households will be riding out to exchange places with you and Kay a few weeks hence, but you will not hear from me again after this letter—for Arthur is sending any magic user of Camelot who wishes to the druids, to prepare for the ceremony. Of course, I am to go along, which means I will not be able to write again before I see you at Midsummer._
> 
>  _I can scarcely believe it—that I will see you again within weeks. The castle is in chaos, and has been since Uther died; I am sorry I have not been able to write sooner._
> 
>  _But enough of that, you will see for yourself soon enough. Don’t you dare get into any trouble on the way home, or you’ll have a very angry sorcerer to contend with._
> 
>  _Yours, soon,  
>  Merlin_

◊   ◊   ◊

Gwaine had been harbouring the half-considered thought that their journey would be faster on the way home, but they end up with a retinue again—as well as Bronwen there are two more sorcerers from the court who accepted Arthur’s offer to attend the ceremony, and of course all their associated servants and guardsmen. Travelling with sorcerers does mean more efficiency in some respects—setting up camp can be done in moments, for example—and Gareth seems to take a particular wide-eyed delight in it. It occurs to Gwaine that it’s quite likely that Gareth has never even _seen_ magic performed before—the Purge was over and Camelot settled into the long era of Uther’s cruelty by the time he was born.

Even with those benefits, it’s sorely tempting to ride off toward the horizon and damn them all. Gareth’s baleful glares whenever Gwaine considers it make him turn to Bronwen instead, distracting himself from the nervous urgency fluttering in his belly with conversation. She at least has far more practice at hiding unrest with polite chatter.

The uneasiness spreads to the rest of the party when they pass the border into Camelot, and when Gwaine walks into the first tavern to see a charm fixed above the door, his sense of relief is immense.

At the Forest of Ascetir, Bronwen and the lords leave them—their servants continuing onward to Camelot with the rest of the contingent. Bronwen’s resolve seems to crack a little as they prepare to part ways.

“I will see you in a few days,” Gwaine murmurs to her, offering a sympathetic smile, and she musters one in return.

“I should like to see you again,” she says, “if you’re able to rouse yourself out of bed. I can introduce you to my daughters.”

He raises an eyebrow, keeping his expression droll even as his chest aches; he is not so sure as she is of what his welcome might be. She smirks as she turns her reins to follow the lords ahead of her. “My sons, I’m not so sure I can trust you with,” she says, and then tucks her heels into her horse’s sides and trots onward.

It occurs to Gwaine that she might see Merlin before him. The thought has him spurring Cabrion after her; she turns to him in surprise.

“Would you perform a favour for me?” he asks breathlessly.

“Of course,” she says, brows drawing in confusion.

He knees his horse forward. “If you do not object, convey this to another visitor from Camelot in the druid camp.” He takes her hand, dropping a light kiss to it, and her eyebrows lift, waiting for the rest. “His name is Merlin,” Gwaine says, “servant in the King’s household.”

She laughs softly, and he gives in to the sly grin that’s been creeping at the corners of his mouth.

“Very well,” she says, mouth curling in a smile of her own. “I shall be discreet, and pass the message on.”

“Thank you.” He bows slightly in his saddle, and stays to watch as they ride into the trees and out of sight, heart pounding.

◊   ◊   ◊

When the citadel appears on the horizon—her stout towers creamy in the morning light, red and yellow pennants streaming in the breeze—it almost feels like a dream. As they move out of the surrounding woods and begin the final stretch to the lower town, riders approach them, red cloaks flowing bright behind them.

Cabrion dances beneath him as Gwaine tightens his knees, then he urges her forward at a neat clip to meet the knights. It’s Percival and Lancelot, grinning like idiots and flushed from the sun. Gwaine can’t help but grin right back, smacking his hand onto Percival’s wrist for a greeting that leaves him wincing, and leaning in his saddle to embrace Lancelot.

“We weren’t sure you were going to make it,” Percival says as they ride the short distance back to the rest of the retinue, Lancelot urging his horse over to greet Kay as well. “You’re cutting it rather fine.”

“It’s not even noon yet,” Gwaine dismisses blithely. “All is going perfectly to plan.” He doesn’t mention the past several days of teeth-grinding slowness they’d progressed at; with the city within sight the tension of that anxiety is replaced entirely by the unsteadiness of nervous anticipation.

With Percival regaling him with tales of drunken antics at the royal wedding, they seem to reach the lower town far quicker than Gwaine had expected. Lancelot remains silent on Gwaine’s other side throughout the conversation, as inscrutable as ever, leaving Gwaine with the urge to shake an explanation out of him. It’s only Lancelot’s lack of brooding at the talk of Gwen that stops Gwaine from thinking he’d imagined every inference of something between Lancelot and the royal couple.

Gwaine shoves the jittery feeling aside as they slow their pace to ride more considerately through the busy streets, forcing a pleasant expression on his face. Rather than disinterest, a few friendly cheers spring up as they pass through, only serving to stoke Gwaine’s agitation as they approach the castle.

All over the city are banners and pennants, oak sprigs and green man faces decorating the outsides of houses, and when they ride into the courtyard Arthur and Gwen are standing at the top of the steps, cutting regal figures in finery far grander than any Gwaine’s ever seen them in. Certainly not Guinevere—he feels taken aback at the sight of her, bright eyes and broad smile made more dazzling still by the shimmering cloth of her dress, and the golden decoration of her jewellery.

They both walk down to greet the party, Arthur clasping Kay’s wrist first while Gwen makes a beeline for Gwaine, grinning.

“That certainly suits you,” is his first comment, nodding toward the golden circlet resting in her hair.

She giggles, leaning in to kiss his cheek lightly. “You’re looking well as ever,” she says. “You must come in and eat with us, have a cool drink after your long journey.”

Arthur approaches and Gwaine bows, and when he rises again, Arthur’s expression of haughtiness is belied by an easy smile lurking at the corners of his mouth. It just makes Gwaine all the more anxious: how can they be so at ease when it feels like his guts are being twisted into a knot?

“Your glorious return has indeed been long anticipated,” Arthur says, gripping Gwaine’s wrist. “We won’t keep you long, there’s far too much to be done in preparation for tonight.”

Gwaine dips his head again. “Thank you, Sire,” he says shortly, and it makes Arthur laugh and clap him on the shoulder.

“Don’t know why that never sounds as it should, coming from you,” he says. “Or from Merlin, for that matter.” He narrows his eyes at Gwaine in mock-suspicion.

Just hearing Merlin’s name makes Gwaine’s chest lurch in misfired recognition, and he forces an innocent smile onto his face.

“I think the day that it does is perhaps when we all need to start worrying,” Gwen says wryly. She rests her hand lightly on Gwaine’s arm. “Come on, I’ll send you on your way. You can change out of your travelling clothes, then return to rest after we eat.”

He’d known that Merlin wouldn’t be there to greet him—not that his long-held fantasies of sweeping Merlin into a kiss in front of everyone upon arrival were ever going to be actualised; certainly not after the last round of yet-unresolved letters they had exchanged—but seeing Arthur and Gwen again only serves to make his restless longing stronger.

“Has Merlin left a message for me?” he blurts as Gwen steps away, unable to stop himself.

She moves back closer to him, smile soft, and—his heart sinks—a little sympathetic. At least, Gwaine prays it’s sympathy, and not pity. “You’ll see him tonight,” she says, and it’s not reassuring in the slightest.

 

The familiarity of Camelot is jarring, especially with its sunny corridors in such stark contrast to the dimly-lit grime of Cenred’s castle; with every turn of the path the page leads him on he almost expects to see Merlin striding toward them, on some errand of his own. It doesn’t do much for Gwaine’s nerves.

At length, the page stops before a door in a wing Gwaine’s never been in before, though it is on the same side of the castle as the garrison. The page opens the door and bows slightly, indicating Gwaine should enter.

Gwaine steps forward with a grateful smile that the boy doesn’t even see with his head bent, and Gwaine huffs, bemused, when the door is shut behind him without a word.

The room is quiet and cool after long days on the road, surrounded by people and noise, dust and summer heat. It’s larger than his and Gareth’s in Escetia, but certainly not as enormous as Arthur’s chambers—though it is bigger than Lancelot’s had been. A bed dominates the space, looking luxurious in comparison to the soldier’s cot Gwaine has slept on for the past year, but nowhere near extravagant. It’s the only piece of furniture in the room aside from a writing desk set under a narrow window, and Gwaine wanders toward it, stirring up dust on the bare stone floor, motes whirling in the shaft of sunlight.

The window looks out onto another stone facade, folded on a corner and topped by a small tower; Gwaine is not familiar enough with the castle to tell where it is. The only other thing decorating the room is an old tapestry hanging on the adjacent wall; it’s so faded Gwaine can barely make out what it depicts. The writing desk stands bare before him, and he swipes another line of dust from it with his fingertip. Then he sets his pack down and digs out his writing kit, unwrapping it from its swaddle of clothes and dusting off the desk top with his sleeve before setting it down.

The oddly desolate room immediately feels more welcome just for having the kit’s familiar, warm polish on display, though when Gwaine turns back to the bed he notices something he hadn’t the first time.

There’s a garment on top of the dark coverlet, and as he walks closer he sees it’s a surcoat of stormy blue, the heraldic device embroidered over the chest beautifully detailed: an oak tree in green and brown with wide-reaching branches, leaves large and splayed. Its exposed roots curve more delicate tendrils downwards, negative space amongst them forming a familiar dragon scale shape—Gwaine reaches up to feel the curves and points of his pendant, fingers tracing the mirrored outline.

He supposes he’s to wear it to the ceremony—it’s not as if Merlin would have told them that he already had a family crest, though of course there wouldn’t be any way Gwaine would have consented to wearing it, even if they had known. He wonders what motif has been chosen for Percival and Elyan—and Lancelot, for that matter—and curiously traces the wending branches of the tree.

He’s startled by a knock upon the door, and before Gwaine can respond the door opens and Gareth bustles in, hauling more packs and puffing mightily. He dumps them on the floor as soon as the door closes behind him, and gives Gwaine a disgruntled look. “There are far too many stairs in Camelot.”

Gwaine grins and saunters forward, his anxiety at least partially set aside in favour of goading Gareth again. “Get used to it.”

Gareth rolls his eyes. “Not if I don’t have to. Especially as I’m sleeping in the garrison. You can keep the stairs to yourself.” He glances around the room, then back to Gwaine, and nods toward him. “You’re dining with the King, take that off.”

Gwaine sighs in resignation and holds his arms out, Gareth grumbling all the while as he deftly helps Gwaine get out of his mail and gambeson. When Gwaine’s down to his bedraggled shirt and trousers, Gareth steps back, arms full.

“You can wash yourself,” he says. “I’m surprised the Queen would come anywhere near you, smelling like that.”

Gwaine strips his shirt off. “We’re in Camelot, now,” he says, strolling over to the door. “You should expect your duties to change.”

Gareth wrinkles his nose. “I’ve seen you naked before, and it’s not an experience I wish to repeat,” he sniffs, and Gwaine smirks before sticking his head out the door, hailing a passing—and subsequently very startled—chambermaid and asking for water.

“You can have the rest of the afternoon off,” Gwaine says when he closes the door again. “Should give you time enough to run and find Erin.”

Gareth’s haughtiness shifts into a scowl, but—perhaps concerned that Gwaine will rescind his offer—he leaves without the expected retort.

◊   ◊   ◊

The rest of the afternoon passes for Gwaine with an odd sense of disconnection; for all the pleasure of seeing familiar faces—and their pleasure in seeing him—he still feels like he’s poised and waiting, not quite home yet, and not quite sure if that feeling will ever come. Arthur and Gwen preoccupy him for some of it. A visit to the stables to check on Cabrion takes up yet more time; he lingers there a long while with his eyes closed, absorbing the sounds and smells, remembering. It’s as stirring as it is calming; he leaves feeling as tightly-strung as when he entered, yet as if he’s been tuned to resonate at a keener pitch.

Gaius’ chambers are deserted, of people at least. The same clutter as ever occupies every available surface, books left open and equipment laid out in wait on the tables, glass bottles and ceramic pots crowding the edges of the shelves. The door to Merlin’s room is closed, and Gwaine can’t bring himself to open it, not wanting to discover what he already knows: that Merlin’s not waiting for him inside.

He hears his name called as he’s leaving the tower, and when he turns a servant runs towards him.

“Sir,” the man says breathlessly when he reaches Gwaine. “I’ve been asked to inform you that the party is leaving at the first evening bell.”

Gwaine’s anticipation leaps up in his belly; his insides feel bruised from all the tumbling about they’ve been doing since he first rode into the courtyard.

The hallways are bustling with servants on his way back to the room, running back and forth with pails of water and various items of clothing, heads down and largely ignoring him as he passes. When he enters the room, Gareth is waiting, wearing a simpler version of Camelot’s livery: a red tunic with a gold dragon embroidered over his chest.

Gwaine ambles past to pick at the plate of food that’s appeared on the writing desk. He shoves a few grapes into his mouth, not really hungry but keen to settle the restless emptiness of his stomach. When he turns back, it’s to find Gareth holding up the surcoat.

“No mail?” Gwaine queries through his mouthful.

Gareth shakes his head. “The King has declared no weapons and no armour,” he says, relaying this news as if he doesn’t quite understand it. “For some reason they’re even foregoing a _fire._ ”

Gwaine raises an eyebrow. “Perhaps because the last thing we need to celebrate the end of burning magic users alive is a bonfire,” he says drily, holding his arms out.

Gareth falls silent, clearly chagrined, then helps Gwaine settle the surcoat onto his shoulders, smoothing it down and running his hand over the fine embroidery appraisingly. “Any excuse to get your hands on me,” Gwaine comments smugly, making Gareth huff and roll his eyes, softening the air between them.

Just as Gareth steps away the sound of the evening bell rings out in the distance, making Gwaine’s heart thud wildly in his chest. Gareth looks back at him. “It’s time, then.”

They meet the rest of the party in the courtyard, Arthur and Guinevere waiting at their head, arm in arm. Lancelot’s wearing a golden surcoat, sunburst emblazoned on his chest, and he smiles when he sees Gwaine, coming to stand with him.

“Where exactly is this ceremony occurring?” Gwaine asks him, looking around curiously; the courtyard is nearly full of the castle’s occupants: nobles and artisans dressed in their finest, and knights in their colours, servants running about amongst them.

“Outside the city,” Lancelot says, “near the east road, close to the woods.”

“We’re walking?”

Lancelot nods. “It’s part of the ritual. The druids are walking as well, they will have camped in the woods last night.”

The people around them begin to stir into movement, and Lancelot gestures for Gwaine to follow him, picking his way through the crowd toward the front. Guinevere smiles at them when they approach; she’s wearing a different dress now, gold and green, circlet wound around with tiny white flowers, green stems freshly picked. Arthur is regal in red, of course, crown golden on his brow, watching the crowd silently as he waits, expression reserved.

Just when Gwaine feels as if he can’t wait around any longer, Arthur and Gwen step out and the slow march of the procession begins, out of the courtyard and through the town. The leafy decorations have multiplied since Gwaine rode through it only hours ago, and many of the townspeople come out of their homes to watch them pass.

When they get out of the citadel and into the open country, the servants run ahead to light a long avenue of torches, beacons marking their way. There’s a low murmur of chatter and laughter from the crowd as they walk, but Gwaine remains silent beside Lancelot; near them Guinevere and Arthur only exchange the occasional quiet word.

It doesn’t take as long as Gwaine thought it would to get to their destination; he can see ahead more torches already lit, their light brighter as the sky shifts colour from pale, clear blue to hazy grey-purple. As well as torches there are more servants, bustling about below canvas canopies and one tent made of finer stuff—it must be a royal pavilion, not a thing of battlefields or travelling.

The crowd falls silent as they walk through this small replica of civilisation, the servants standing still and bowing their heads as the King passes. No more torches are lit in the long empty space ahead of them, but even in the approaching twilight each detail of the grass underfoot and scattered wildflowers seems apparent to Gwaine’s eyes. He inhales deeply and finds it hard to exhale again; the landscape around him seems to be holding its breath as well.

From the trees ahead there’s the low hush of leaves shuffling in the breeze, the sound of the wind that moved them seeming to take on a low, distant hum, right on the edge of Gwaine’s hearing. Arthur seems to hear it too; he stops and looks forward, squinting toward the tree line, the blond hair not bound by his crown waving free on his forehead, moved by the gentle breeze.

The party stops behind them, and they’re only still for a moment before Gwaine spots light amongst the trees. It’s not the brash orange of torches, but paler and steadier gold, becoming brighter as it approaches. There are murmurs at his back as the crowd spots them too, and the humming seems to increase, flowing louder and softer like sound carried on shifting winds, and then the druids step out of the trees. Gwaine realises abruptly that the hum is their voice—their _voices_ —scores of them approaching at a slow march, and the more of them that emerge, the more Gwaine feels the sound reverberate through the very ground, tingling through the soles of his feet, resonating in his chest.

The lights are small spheres that hover around shoulder height amidst the druids, and they’re gradually extinguished as they approach, leaving the shadows of the forest behind for the still-clear light on the field that the people of Camelot stand upon.

The druids are close enough that Gwaine can discern words amidst the low wave of sound when he realises that Merlin is walking at their head. So keenly had Gwaine been searching the rows of faces in the crowd that the unexpected sight of him right in front sends a shock of recognition through Gwaine’s body, leaving him trembling. All the druids are wearing their characteristic green robes, though there are a few amongst them with greener cloth, or browner; Merlin’s is a familiar muted blue—the same colour the faded scarf that Gwaine’s been treasuring no doubt once was, and the same colour as Gwaine’s surcoat.

The connection falls together in Gwaine’s mind, and it’s all he can do to keep his place and not run forward. Though he’s not entirely certain his legs could support him; knees locked and thighs tense.

Merlin’s path through the grass leads him directly to where Arthur stands, and each step closer allows Gwaine to perceive a fresh detail: the longer sweep of Merlin’s hair over his forehead and the tops of his ears; the blue stain of druidic swirls and symbols winding sinuously down his bare forearms, coiling around his wrists and to his fingers. He’s wearing a crown of oak leaves, luscious and green, face pale and angular below it. The neck of the robe is open, and just covered by the rough weave of cloth Gwaine can see the muted glint of a familiar chain.

Merlin brings the druids to a halt a few yards from Arthur, the very humanness of the voices now more obvious for all that magic is still thick in the air around them; Gwaine fancies he can hear each individual voice chanting the same refrain, young and old, man and woman. As it levels out into silence, Merlin finally looks away from Arthur. Gwaine sees him meet Gwen’s eyes, lips twitching in a small smile, and then his gaze flits along the crowd of people before him.

When he catches sight of Gwaine, Gwaine sees his body jolt, the same blow of recognition he’d felt himself. Merlin’s chest swells with his breath, and his eyes bore into Gwaine’s. Gwaine’s heart pounds like it wants to break right out of his chest and close the painfully small distance to Merlin all on its own. They stare at each other for long moments, Merlin’s unfettered smile matching Gwaine’s own, and at last Gwaine raises his eyebrows and dips his head in a small nod; Merlin breathes deep and closes his eyes briefly, opening them to refocus on Arthur.

With Merlin’s eyes off him Gwaine feels abruptly released, weak and wrung out, but all the more desperate to be closer; his resentment of the crowds surrounding them is intense. He keeps his eyes on Merlin’s solemn, beloved face as Arthur says, “Druid, do your people sanction the sorcerer I have appointed to serve in Camelot’s court?” —and Gwaine’s letter, his final, unanswered entreaty for a life of discretion—snaps into the forefront of his mind, making his heart plummet and face burn hot.

“We do,” the man standing next to Merlin says, the same swirls and motifs adorning Merlin’s arms tattooed onto his neck and clasped hands.

Arthur nods in acknowledgement, the tone of his voice as he continues somber and ceremonial. “Then may this ritual, and this sorcerer’s place in the governing of Camelot, serve to heal the rift between us. May magic be welcomed back into this kingdom, and begin the growth of a new era.”

He holds his hand out as he says the last; there’s a single green acorn resting in it, which he turns to offer to Guinevere. She smiles at him, her eyes fixed on his and her touch lingering as she accepts his offering. Then she steps forward to stand in the centre of the space between him and Merlin and gracefully descends to the ground, kneeling. With her bare hands she parts the grass, scooping away earth before placing the acorn into the furrow she’s made and pressing the soil firmly back over it. She stands and brushes the dirt off her hands, and Arthur catches one in his own when she returns to his side, lifting it briefly to his lips. Gwaine doesn’t miss the fleeting glance over her shoulder he sends to Lancelot, either; and he wonders if it was only his sensitivity to such things that made it seem so obvious.

But his gaze doesn’t stay on them for very long, because Merlin’s stepping forward now, and he raises his outstretched arm to hold his hand, open-palmed, over the place Gwen planted the acorn. He doesn’t speak, but breathes deeply before staring intently at the spot, and Gwaine’s breath is stolen from him again when Merlin’s eyes flare a sudden, brilliant gold. The druids begin chanting again—more intent this time, the prickle of their magic in the air tangible.

From the earth a delicate green frond emerges. After wavering for a moment, it lifts its curled head and abruptly fans its first leaf open, brilliant green. Then another leaf grows, and another, quick and without hesitation, the slender stem thickening and shooting upward.

The chant increases in volume and Gwaine is almost certain he sees the blue swirls decorating Merlin’s arms flow sinuously from his elbow and out where his hand is held. The sapling is taller than he is, now, and growing even faster still, its leaves flourishing outward and upward. The trunk thickens, as wide as his wrist, then his thigh, then his torso; and then wider than a single man, then perhaps wide enough for four men to stand with their arms wrapped around it, fingers just touching.

Arthur and Gwen are forced to step back, but Merlin’s gaze is directed upwards as his hand rests on the trunk, his face fey and beautiful in its intense concentration, eyes blazing. The druids’ chant gains further volume, pushing power forward and Merlin’s nearly glowing with it, the branches of the oak stretching high and extending wide.

Finally the growth of it slows, and the chanting drops to a murmur again, Merlin breathing hard as the final fingers of the oak’s branches reach out just above the heads of the gathered crowd. Magic swirls around it, a visible golden haze, curling into the same patterned shapes stained on Merlin’s skin. Gwaine doesn’t realise just how big the tree is until the patterns diffuse and the light rises to settle amidst the branches, illuminating everyone’s upturned faces in the new twilight.

The chanting ends, and from Camelot’s side comes a sudden explosion of cheers, the roar of it far less coherent than the druids’ spellmaking, but no less fervent. Gwaine lowers his gaze to Merlin’s face again; Merlin’s expression is energised and triumphant, and Gwaine can barely join in the shouted praise, as overwhelmed by awe as he is. Then Arthur steps forward, moving toward Merlin, and as if this gesture has broken some unseen barrier, both crowds surge forward and merge, and Gwaine loses sight of them.


	6. Part Six

Gwaine can barely see through the crowd, let alone move through it. Green robes intermixed with Camelot finery block his way, every gap he pursues closing with another embrace, or a kiss; voices raised in laughter and exclamations of joy. After trying and failing to get to where he last saw Merlin without resorting to violence, Gwaine realises that the crowd is in fact pushing against him; when he stops fighting it he finds himself moving with them, being wheeled around the oak tree, fenced in by clasped hands on either side.

“The King is dead!” a man shouts from somewhere in the crowd, and from elsewhere a woman cries, “Long live the Oak King!” just as joyous. The cry is taken up, and the circular march takes on its rhythm; when a drumbeat lifts the cries turn into cheers again, and march into dance. Someone grasps Gwaine’s hand and when he tries to pull free the grip tightens, and then he’s being tugged away from the tree and through the crowd, effortless as you please. He trips breathlessly between the crush of people, barely able to see who’s leading him until they’re out in the open. Then Merlin stops and turns, using his grip to pull Gwaine into him.

“Thought I’d never get out of there,” Gwaine says, at a loss how else to begin with Merlin bright and breathless in front of him.

“Tell me about it,” Merlin says, and he clasps Gwaine’s face between his hands and kisses him once, quick and hard and dizzying, the crowd noise suddenly roaring in Gwaine’s ears. “This way,” he says before Gwaine can come up with an apt response. “Unless you prefer an extremely large audience.” And he leads Gwaine into the trees.

Despite the near-dark—more obvious now that they’re away from the magical illumination of the oak—the woods seem to part for them, no branches sweeping too low and no roots rising to trip them. When Merlin turns to see him follow, the light catches his face briefly; with his leafy crown he looks almost like Pan, mischievous and powerful, the promise of hedonism in the tilt of his smile.

Gwaine laughs at the sheer joy of it, all feelings of doubt and heartache overruled with Merlin’s hand in his. Gwaine’s feet are too clumsy to carry him as lightly as he feels. “Stop, stop,” he begs, and Merlin obeys as they come to a small gap in the trees, ground soft and mossy underfoot. Then Gwaine finds himself backed against a tree trunk, with Merlin tall and real pressed up against him, Merlin’s hands on his face again.

“You’re here,” Merlin says simply, and Gwaine clasps him in return, draws him into a kiss, at _last_.

It’s just as fierce as the one Merlin pressed upon him while they were still in the open, but this time it lasts longer, Merlin’s mouth opening against his and Merlin’s happy moan reverberating under his hands. Their tongues press and stroke, more intent with each delving taste, becoming frantic. They finally stop when their chests are heaving with the need to suck in more air; already breathless from running through the woods, Gwaine feels half-drunk and dizzy. He presses his forehead to Merlin’s, revelling even in the cool puff of Merlin’s breath against his wet mouth.

“Let me get a look at you,” Merlin murmurs at length, stepping back and taking Gwaine’s hands again to tug him forward. He whispers a word and an orb of light expands into existence above them, the same warm gold as settled in the oak tree.

Gwaine almost feels shy at the open scrutiny. Which is a bit ridiculous at this point, considering what he’s written to Merlin, but that’s just the thing—how easy it had been to open his heart on a piece of parchment, without Merlin standing before him, responding immediately to everything Gwaine says and does, his reactions inescapable.

“I thought you didn’t want an audience,” Gwaine says, glancing up at the orb.

“They won’t notice it,” Merlin assures him, and his smile is bordering on wicked. “I have been planning this for a while, you know.”

It draws a laugh out of Gwaine, banishing some of his nervousness, and more still is washed away when Merlin steps closer again, hand brushing Gwaine’s hair back from his face. “Lancelot told me you cut it,” he murmurs, pushing his fingers through the strands. “It isn’t as short as I thought it was going to be.” He rubs Gwaine’s scalp as he strokes back to rest his hand on Gwaine’s nape. Gwaine sighs in pleasure at the touch—not to mention the warming thought of Merlin asking after him—and Merlin presses a softer kiss to his mouth, smiling.

“It’s mostly grown back, now,” Gwaine says, nudging his chin forward to follow Merlin’s lips.

“I think I would have liked to see it.” He tightens his grip in Gwaine’s hair, taking a fistful and tugging gently. “Though I do like this very much.”

Gwaine tilts his head back into the sensation, eyeing Merlin from beneath his lowered lashes as Merlin’s gaze drifts over his face and downward.

“You’re wearing my symbol,” Merlin says when his eyes reach Gwaine’s chest, sounding awed and delighted all at once. His hand splays over the embroidered tree, his words and the touch spreading the warmth of realisation through Gwaine’s body as well. “I wanted to ask you first, but Gwen thought the surprise would be better. I hope it wasn’t an unwelcome one.” Merlin’s smile turns smugly suggestive. “You do suit my colours very well.”

Gwaine snorts, but he’s grinning as he clasps Merlin’s hand on his chest, and he nods towards him. “Speaking of colours and symbols, that suits you as well,” Gwaine says, and then, before he’s really thought about it, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Merlin touches the oak leaf crown, expression turning hesitant. “I… I ran out of time.” When Gwaine raises an eyebrow he huffs a little, ducking his head. “I didn’t want to scare you off,” he confesses.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Gwaine says, easing his arms around Merlin’s body and pulling it flush against him, proving with his touch what he’s told Merlin countless times on parchment. He dips his chin down to guide Merlin’s head back up with more kisses; Gwaine is certain he’ll never tire of them.

“I know,” Merlin responds at length. “But this… court sorcerer… everything… sort of ruins our running-away-and-having-lots-of-sex contingency plan.”

Gwaine laughs again, tightening his arms to press Merlin closer, rolling his hips into the embrace. “Isn’t that what we’re doing right now?” he points out.

“God,” Merlin says, staring at his mouth. “ _Yes_. Enough talking.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Gwaine says with mock-seriousness, and Merlin laughs and tumbles him to the ground.

The little sphere of light is extinguished by the time they land, elbows and knees cushioned by the thick layer of moss, and the warm darkness of the summer night flows back around them. It’s almost like Gwaine’s fantasies, then—perfected in the intimate dark behind his closed eyes, conjuring thoughts of Merlin pressing against him—only this is a thousand times better because he can’t predict it, each new touch of Merlin’s body to his shocking in its pleasure. And more intense, too, in part because it seems that finally lying with each other has tapped the well of desperate lust that’s been filling all year; gentleness seems left by the wayside, but Gwaine’s not complaining.

They roll about, Merlin pressing him into the ground and kissing him hot and possessive; then Merlin’s tumbled onto his back when Gwaine grips his hips, his arse; grappling with the thick weave of the long robe. They strip it up and off and Merlin is lithe and firm underneath; Gwaine splays his hands over Merlin’s chest to stroke as widely as he can, pressing with his fingers, feeling the taut leanness of Merlin’s flesh beneath the soft, heated fabric of his shirt. Mouth watering, he nuzzles to find the low-slit opening of the shirt then drags his lips upward, Merlin arching up into him at the prickle of his beard, and Gwaine bites down on the angled tendon where Merlin’s neck curves into his shoulder, sucking hard.

Merlin’s appreciative groan is unselfconscious, one hand tightening in Gwaine’s hair and tugging until Gwaine growls and latches tighter. The other hand Merlin knuckles hard in Gwaine’s lower back, and he forces his knee up between Gwaine’s legs. Gwaine bucks forward—the first hint of Merlin touching him where he wants it most—and rocks against the hard press of Merlin’s thigh. Gwaine’s cock is stiffening quickly, and he grinds down to try and feel if Merlin is similarly affected. Merlin tightens the grip on Gwaine’s hair, though, pulling until the pleasure of giving in to his painful direction is better than the stinging hurt itself.

Merlin forces him to the ground again, and they wrestle for long moments over who’s to be on their back, shoving their hips together and biting at mouth and jaw. Merlin’s hands push up under the surcoat and grip at Gwaine’s waist; the unexpected, tender touch makes Gwaine falter, briefly disoriented by the dark fabric being pulled up over his head, and then he’s freed of it and falling back.

Merlin bares his teeth triumphantly above him, features lit faintly by the moonlight through the gaps in the trees. He straddles Gwaine’s thighs, splaying his own knees wide for a stable enough seat to pin Gwaine down with it. Then he leans in to run his hands over Gwaine’s chest, touch shameless and proprietary as he maps out the shape of Gwaine’s body.

It’s hard to only watch him; Gwaine grasps the thick chain swinging free around Merlin’s neck and uses it to pull Merlin back into a kiss. Merlin pushes Gwaine’s head back into the loam with the force of it, feeding his throaty noise of pleasure between Gwaine’s lips. When the heels of his palms find Gwaine’s nipples and press firmly against them, Gwaine makes a helpless, hurting noise of his own, pushing his hips up against Merlin’s hold. Merlin pants against his mouth, grinning and licking at his lips for a moment before ducking lower, pushing aside the cloth of Gwaine’s shirt to kiss his skin directly. His teeth scrape along the line of a pectoral, and then he rubs against the sensitive skin of Gwaine’s nipple; gripping lightly and pinching, twisting, his tongue licking the trapped flesh between his fingers.

It’s a little too much, but glorious for just that reason, sending shudders desperately through Gwaine’s body as the sensation twists sharp pleasure through him, high, breathy noises spilling from his mouth. Merlin’s licks become more intent, tongue laving hard against the bud as his wet fingers find Gwaine’s other nipple, giving it the same relentless treatment.

Gwaine’s cock feels hard as iron, trapped in his trousers and so close to Merlin’s heat but still too far away; he grasps Merlin’s arse and arches up against him, making Merlin gasp and thrust back.

“Come on,” Gwaine gasps, rocking against Merlin’s stiff cock. “Let me see it.”

Merlin laughs breathlessly. “You first,” he says, and shifts to kneel between Gwaine’s legs instead, long fingers tugging at the lacings of Gwaine’s trousers. Eagerness wins over dexterity, and Gwaine has a fleeting concern for how he’ll manage to get through the rest of the evening if he can’t actually fasten his clothes again. Any importance that might have held disappears when Merlin settles between his legs, arms hooked over his thighs, mouth very near Gwaine’s bare cock.

“This is the best part,” Merlin whispers, “when I get to find out what you really like.” He brushes his lips against the shaft and Gwaine’s breath leaves him in a rush, not even enough air for voice when the soft touch turns wet with the lick of Merlin’s tongue.

He agrees, thoroughly—he couldn’t have imagined the flutter of Merlin’s eyelashes on his belly, or the way he breathes out with shaky pleasure as his tongue tastes the tip of Gwaine’s cock. All Gwaine’s fantasies had somehow focused on just one site of contact—mouth and cock, or hand and cock, or arse and hand, or mouth and mouth—but the reality is he can feel the restless movement of Merlin’s chest between his legs, the dig of Merlin’s elbow into his thigh, the ebb and flow of Merlin’s attention as he keeps getting distracted by his own pleasure. Gwaine’s rising arousal is different, too—as Merlin seeks out the sensitive spots, his touch in places that Gwaine usually ignores just serves to stoke his anticipation, making each dart of pleasure all the sweeter.

Gwaine’s thighs are tight with tension as he tries to keep still, aching to thrust up into the wet suck of Merlin’s mouth. His hand fumbles down to Merlin’s head instead—the oak crown is long since gone, but Merlin’s hair feels silken between his fingers, damp at the nape of his neck. At the touch, Merlin makes a soft, pleased noise around Gwaine’s cock and begins a more focused rhythm, twisting with his hand and sliding his mouth up and down to meet it. Gwaine moans, and his hand cups low enough to feel the warm chain of Merlin’s locket; he wraps it around his fist, clenching tight but not pulling too hard, just enough to encircle Merlin’s throat.

Merlin gasps and lifts his head but doesn’t push Gwaine off, flat of his tongue licking the head of Gwaine’s cock over and over as Gwaine struggles to keep the leash on him gentle, Merlin’s eyes gleaming back at him in the moonlight. When Merlin’s damp knuckles brush the sensitive skin behind Gwaine’s balls—light at first, then more deliberate—Gwaine shudders and flattens his hand on the back of Merlin’s neck to bring him back up.

The taste of himself in Merlin’s mouth is better than Gwaine ever imagined, and he moans as Merlin’s tongue strokes into his mouth the same way, tightening his legs around Merlin’s hips. Merlin rocks downward, and then for long moments they get lost in the urgency of thrusting against each other, mouths deep and devouring, their entire bodies rolling into it. Then Merlin breaks his mouth away, panting and burying his face in Gwaine’s neck, his hips pushing firm between Gwaine’s legs. Gwaine can feel how hard he is, and the promise of it makes him feel weak with wanting.

He bends his head to nuzzle Merlin’s damp hair, lipping at his ear. “Go on, then,” Gwaine whispers, lightly teasing, “aren’t you going to plant your acorn?”

Merlin shakes with startled laughter, puffing hotly against Gwaine’s neck. “You can’t say things like that,” he says without heat.

“Why not?”

Merlin draws away enough to look at him, mouth twisted in that achingly familiar way, almost the first look Gwaine had ever seen on him: like he really wants to smile but can’t quite believe that Gwaine is making him.

“I like it when you laugh,” Gwaine murmurs, low and heated.

He can feel the unsteadiness of Merlin’s breathing, Merlin’s chest pressed flush against him. When Merlin strokes his fingers against the swell of Gwaine’s lower lip Gwaine kisses them gently, draws the tips into his mouth. Merlin allows it for a moment or two, eyes dark and intent, then withdraws them to clasp Gwaine’s jaw instead, forcing Gwaine’s mouth open and taking it in another deep kiss, grip tight and controlling.

“Are you sure?” Merlin gasps when he draws back again, at the same time pushing his hips forward, slow and deliberate, washing a boneless wave of heat through Gwaine’s body.

“Think I might die if you don’t,” Gwaine confesses hoarsely, meaning it though he follows it with a huff of laughter, diluting his seriousness.

Another quick, hard kiss, then Merlin’s hands are on his hips, yanking his trousers down and out of the way. While he’s busy pulling off Gwaine’s boots, Gwaine drops his head back against the ground, eyes searching for stars amidst the dark silhouettes of leaves above, heart pounding at a gallop.

Merlin’s hand smooths firmly back up his inner thigh and Gwaine spreads his legs wider at Merlin’s guidance, but when Merlin’s fingers press, oil-slick, between them he startles and looks up. Merlin stops immediately, looking back.

“Did you _conjure_ that?” Gwaine asks, incredulous.

“I _summoned_ it,” Merlin says haughtily.

Gwaine drops his head back and laughs, cutting it off with an unsteady inhale when Merlin’s oiled fingers swirl gently at his opening. “Wait,” he says shakily. “Wait.”

He closes his legs around Merlin’s wrist when Merlin goes to withdraw, and it has the planned effect of making Merlin keep up the shivery, tantalising touch as he brings himself up to lie alongside Gwaine again. Gwaine cradles Merlin’s head in his hands, needing to kiss him again; when Merlin goes to press his fingers in Gwaine tightens the grip of his thighs at the first breach.

“I don’t want that,” he whispers, Merlin staring back at him, noses brushing. “Just you.”

Merlin’s fingers rub again, harder like he can’t resist, circling around and over the closed furl of Gwaine’s body. Gwaine can feel Merlin’s coiled tension, pressed all along his side, and how Gwaine’s words make him shift forward restlessly.

“It is actually bigger than an acorn,” Merlin says, soft and uncertain.

“Slowly,” Gwaine clarifies.

Merlin huffs out a laugh, pressing his face to Gwaine’s shoulder, fingers still stroking, pressing. “Don’t know if I can,” he confesses.

Gwaine lets his legs fall open again, and nudges Merlin with his knee. “You’d better.”

Merlin uses so much oil that everything is almost too slippery to work at first, but the feel of the blunt head of his cock nudging against Gwaine’s hole is inflaming in itself, and he has to force himself to hold still instead of squirming into it. It’s been a while since he’s been fucked but he’s determined to make this work, anticipating already the delicious, overwhelming feeling of being filled.

Merlin palms the back of Gwaine’s thigh, pushing it back and out of the way as he stares down with intense concentration, using his other hand to guide the tip of his cock to where it needs to be. His press forward is more deliberate, then, and Gwaine hisses in a breath and gasps out again breathlessly—“That’s it, that’s it—” making himself relax, not resist it. It hurts, but not too much to bear, and Merlin draws back after barely breaching him and then presses forward again, slowly as ordered. Gwaine can hear the harsh drag of his breathing but Merlin stays steady, working himself in against the tight clasp of Gwaine’s body, and when the head of his cock slips in properly he jerks forward a little harder, forcing an involuntary cry from Gwaine’s throat.

“Fuck, fuck,” Merlin chants unsteadily, trembling above him, and to his credit he doesn’t pull all the way out again but braces his hands on the ground on either side of Gwaine and keeps himself still. Gwaine strokes his arms soothingly, Merlin’s skin damp with sweat, soaking into his shirt. Gwaine tightens around the intrusion—surprised he’s able to do that; it feels like Merlin’s stretching him as wide as he can go, enormously thick and unrelentingly hard—then pushes back, allowing Merlin to sink in a little further, a little easier.

The conditions for Merlin fucking him had been an instinctual demand, but on reflection, perfect: Gwaine’s being gradually filled, pinned in place and driven slowly mad by the inescapability of it, heat flushing all over his skin and limbs weakened by the frantic speeding of his heart. And Merlin is above him, desperate and determined, unyielding as he slowly takes Gwaine over. It’s been building all year, and a better culmination Gwaine could not have imagined.

A helpless, eager sound escapes him, and Merlin hunkers lower to kiss him again, mouth unfocused and sloppy and the perfect complement to the hard force of his cock; Gwaine folds his knees up and digs his heels into the small of Merlin’s back to guide him inward quicker. Merlin groans as he sinks the last length forward in a rush, and the hurt flares then, sending tremors through Gwaine’s limbs, and more when Merlin draws back to thrust back in again, making Gwaine give a choked, pained cry. Merlin doesn’t stop, though, forcing him through it; he grasps Gwaine’s hair again and pulls his head back to mouth at his throat, and the next time he thrusts forward Gwaine reaches down and clutches his arse, holding him in for a little longer before he pulls back.

The pain doesn’t go away, but Merlin stokes the burn into something glorious with each smooth stroke of his cock, and soon enough he’s thrusting forward in the rhythm of Gwaine’s panting breath, hips flexing quickly under the wrap of Gwaine’s legs around him.

“Gwaine, fuck, _yes_ ,” Merlin groans against his throat, and unsurprisingly he doesn’t last much longer. He rises again to hold Gwaine’s hips still in his grip, then slams forward the last few times and pushes deep, back arching and mouth falling open as he spills, hot and wet inside him.

Gwaine thinks Merlin’s eyes might have flared gold at his climax, but it’s hard to tell with sparks drifting in the corners of his own vision, his body trembling on the edge of endurance despite the fact that Merlin’s just done most of the hard work. He feels not unlike he’s just been injured—his body reacting to the pain with a giddying drop in energy while his limbs still shake and heart flutters frantically. Only this vulnerability—and Merlin’s willingness to see him through it without baulking—leaves him feeling exhilarated rather than wounded.

He groans at the sharp discomfort when Merlin pulls out, but that doesn't last long with Merlin kissing the sound out of his mouth, murmuring, “What do you want?”

The scalp-prickling memory of Merlin’s mouth hot and slick around his cock is too close to consider anything else. “Your mouth,” he whispers hoarsely, and Merlin descends without pause, guiding Gwaine’s hand into his hair on his way.

He takes Gwaine’s cock in his mouth easily, urging it back to hardness with the eager stroke of his tongue. Gwaine’s love for him grows impossibly when Merlin’s fingers seek out his hole again, instead of ignoring it now that the pleasure of his fucking it is over; not hesitating at the slick mess but pushing his fingers back inside. The stretch of Gwaine’s rim stings, but is quickly succeeded when Merlin’s fingers find the spot inside that sends out a sharp jolt of pleasure, the sensation almost unbearable. Gwaine doesn’t realise he’s shouted until he feels the raw scrape of it in his throat, and Merlin sucks, tight and encouraging. His tongue lashes against the taut, sensitive skin of Gwaine’s cock as his fingers massage deep, continuing with even more fervour when Gwaine twists his fist desperately in Merlin’s hair.

When Merlin reaches up his free hand to pinch at Gwaine’s still-tender nipple, it’s too much, and Gwaine’s climax washes through his body like flames, razing control and rationality with its heat as he arches up, vision going bright.

When he comes back to himself Merlin’s pressed up against his side again, hands stroking over Gwaine’s face and neck, breath as loud and hoarse as Gwaine’s in the hush of the woods, drums pounding in the distance that Gwaine only gradually realises isn’t actually the sound of his heart.

“That was... quite fantastic,” Merlin says, sounding awed and exhausted.

“It was. And you are. The most fantastic of men,” Gwaine pants, certain that half the relief he feels is in the fact that he and Merlin clearly make compatible lovers, along with everything else. He tries to roll over to embrace Merlin again, but has to stop, groaning in discomfort. “So fantastic that I might never walk again, in fact.”

Merlin laughs softly, and strokes his hand down Gwaine’s flank, soothing. He whispers words into Gwaine’s neck, and a gentle wash of heat follows his touch; some of the ache eases. “So you can still feel it,” he whispers secretively, the thrill of his words singing through Gwaine’s sensitive body, “but no one knows it except me.”

They are getting quite good at kissing now, but Merlin draws away after far too little of it. “I wish we could stay here forever,” he says, sounding regretful already.

“I’ve hardly got to see any of you,” Gwaine protests, seeking to convince Merlin to stay with the possessive stroke of his hands up Merlin’s sides and down over his hips, squeezing. Merlin is disappointingly over-dressed, even after all of that.

“We’ll have plenty of time yet,” Merlin says, and Gwaine seals that promise with another kiss.

It takes them longer than it ought to get dressed again, though Merlin mends Gwaine’s snapped laces quickly with another gold-tinted command. Merlin conjures the globe of light again to search for the discarded crown, and when Gwaine finally finds it, he straightens and looks over his shoulder to find Merlin staring hungrily; then he’s being pressed face-first against the tree trunk, Merlin pushing his hips against Gwaine's arse and biting the back of his neck, his hand shoving under the newly-mended laces.

Luckily, Merlin’s spell to clean them up works just as well the second time, and Gwaine’s still holding onto the crown so he’s able to set it back on Merlin’s head without further ado. Gwaine could have sworn it was a little worse for wear, but after moments of being settled in Merlin’s hair it seems to lose its bedraggled appearance, leaves crisp and fresh again. Merlin does up Gwaine’s belt for him, cinching the surcoat, and last of all Gwaine tucks the locket back under Merlin’s robes. Then they just stand and stare at each other.

At least until Merlin turns his head away, looking back to where the drumbeat and shouts of revelry ring out, as if someone’s just called his name. “They’re missing me,” he says distractedly, and turns back to give Gwaine an apologetic smile.

“Come on, then,” Gwaine says, and begins walking back through the trees before he can give in to the urge to drag Merlin to the ground again, instead leading him by the hand. “No need to keep your adoring subjects waiting.”

“They’re hardly adoring,” Merlin scoffs.

“Really.”

“You have no idea just how much political posturing I’ve been subject to for the past month. And before then, even, because _Arthur_ —god, he’s worse than I thought he would be.”

Gwaine laughs softly.

“Though there was one strange woman who gave me a kiss,” Merlin says, his tone taking on an air of calculated innocence, “on behalf of another.”

“Did she now?” Gwaine grins.

“Yes.” Merlin stops before Gwaine steps out of the trees, drawing him back a pace to keep them out of sight as he lifts Gwaine’s hand, dropping a kiss to it before letting it go. “I need to be with the druids. Don’t cause too much trouble?”

“Only if you’re gone too long.”

Merlin rolls his eyes. “Don’t drink too much.”

“Never.”

Merlin brushes his palm one last time over the embroidered tree on Gwaine’s chest, smile proud and eyes fond, then steps away and out towards the light again, quickly vanishing amidst the crowd.

 

The tree has grown further in their absence, the branches that had just brushed the heads of the assembled crowds now arching all the way to the ground and spreading outward. From within the canopy comes a golden glow; in fact the whole thing seems to be lit up—light limning each leaf and twig, illuminating the surrounds at least as much as a fire would have. It’s too enormous to see around, but from the other side Gwaine can hear music, though there are people still dancing on this side of it as well—children, mostly, darting in and out of the canopy with shrieks of laughter while a few indulgent adults look on. It’s hardly Gwaine’s usual idea of fun, but he’s drawn closer anyway, wanting to see what’s beneath the luscious drape of boughs.

“Sir Gwaine.”

He turns at the sound of his name spoken in a familiar voice and sees Gaius. His presence is not entirely unexpected, though it’s hard to tell from his usual garb whether he’d come with the druids, or accompanied them from Camelot, and Gwaine had been just too preoccupied to notice. Gaius is looking at him with the same old reserved smile, and Gwaine grins winsomely in return. It is actually good to see the old man again, for all that Gwaine had banished him without remorse from his own rooms in all fantasies of accosting Merlin there.

“Gaius,” he says, dipping his head in respect. “I trust you’re well?” He alters his course to approach, and Gaius blinks as he comes near, eyebrow lifting.

“Perhaps not as well as some, though I cannot complain. You know the Lady Bronwen, I take it?”

Gwaine hides his confusion at Gaius’ uncharacteristic, if mild, standoffishness—wondering just how much Merlin had confided in the old man in his absence—and turns to where Bronwen is standing at his side, looking highly amused.

“My Lady,” Gwaine says, bowing over her hand. “Thank you for conveying my message.”

“Not at all,” she says. “Though it seems as if you have managed to convey a few of your own since then.”

Gwaine frowns openly this time—confusion shifting into concern that he’s sporting a damning stain somewhere, or lack of properly-fastened clothes—he _could_ have missed something, in the dim light of the woods, but there’s no way he can check without condemning himself to further embarrassment if it’s not as he fears—

Bronwen smirks, and gestures to her own neck and jaw, looking at him. “You’re looking a little… blue.”

Gwaine rubs his own neck and looks down at his hand—in the much brighter light of the tree he can see a stain the same colour as the lines dyed on Merlin’s arms, and not only where his fingers had touched his neck, either. Gaius’ apparent discomfort abruptly makes more sense; Gwaine didn’t even look to see the state of the patterns on Merlin’s skin before they parted ways.

Bronwen’s expression is deeply entertained, but she’s sympathetic enough not to laugh at the warmth creeping over Gwaine’s face. He tries to smile politely in Gaius’ direction but it just comes out profoundly awkward. It’s barely an hour since he’s been reunited with Merlin, and already he’s failing terribly at keeping up any kind of _discretion_.

“I take it the rest of your journey went well, then,” Bronwen says kindly, and Gwaine is immensely grateful for her deft change of subject.

“Yes. And you? Your family?” He almost doesn’t want to ask—there’s no one else standing with the two of them, though he supposes they may have much to talk about, given that they were both members of Camelot’s court, more than twenty years ago.

Bronwen looks over to children playing around the tree. “That’s my granddaughter,” she says, her voice rich with the depth of the unspoken in those few, simple words.

Gwaine watches the girl laugh and dart into the leafy boughs again. “She has your look about her.”

Bronwen smiles. “She’s my daughter’s.” She turns back to Gwaine, and her smile falls away, mouth pressing tight with sadness. “Do not ask me of my sons. I cannot. Not yet.”

Gwaine feels a sympathetic stab of grief—knotted together tightly with a sense of injustice at it all—and he nods in acknowledgement of her request. “I was intending to seek out some mead,” he says instead. “Can I fetch you some?”

Her smile is small but genuine, and the affinity he’d felt for her from nearly the beginning settles warmly in his chest. “No, thank you. Though you ought to leave some for everyone else, too.”

“Why is everyone so inclined to think the worst of me?” Gwaine sighs, exaggeratedly put-upon.

“I’m sure I have no idea,” Gaius says blandly in response.

“Gaius, shall I bring you a goblet?”

“No, thank you. I’ve seen far too many injuries due to intoxication to have a taste for the stuff.” His gaze on Gwaine is piercing, and for all Merlin’s independence, Gwaine wonders fleetingly what he’s got into.

He bows politely as he takes his leave of them, Gaius dipping his head and Bronwen curtseying in return, and heads the last few paces to the tree.

The branches are laden heavily with acorns, making Gwaine wonder idly if they’re what drew the boughs to grow all the way to the ground, as ancient and thick as the branches seem. Though from even a few paces away the canopy appears impermeable, when he walks right up to it it’s easy enough to sidestep in, cool leaves brushing him on either side.

It’s not as bright as he thought it would be inside, and under direct examination of any small portion of the tree the gold seems to fade and be hardly present; like the faintest of stars, the light is brightest when he sees it from the corners of his eyes. It is quieter, though, and the grass thick and lush underfoot as if enriched by sunlight—as he supposes it was, given the speed of the tree’s growth—but it’s unlike any other canopy he’s ever been under.

The space seems larger, too. As Gwaine steps further in, the sound of laughing children is left behind, but he spies a young man and woman chasing each other around the enormous trunk, and another pair resting in the grass together, gazing into each other’s eyes. There are a few others too, some simply lying on their own, staring upward with expressions ranging from content to rapturous.  

The bark of the trunk is rough and somehow warm when Gwaine brushes his fingers against it as he passes, and by the time he reaches the far side of the canopy he feels filled with the warm, hazy glow of it all—almost drunk from the muffled, cosy space. When he emerges the summer night air feels cooler over his skin, the noise raucous, the smell of crushed grass and sweaty bodies suddenly sharp.

He’s still blinking, looking around for familiar faces—unsure even of how much time has passed while he was under the tree—when a servant sweeps by him, leaving a full goblet in his hands. Downing the mead re-establishes some of his equilibrium, helping the muggy warmth of happiness suffusing him to better match the world outside his skin. When a druid woman—dark braids coiled up over her ears and robes hoisted above her ankles—takes his hand and drags him into the dance, laughing, he doesn’t resist.

The joyous rhythm of fiddle and drum matches his mood well, and when a piper joins the band he cheers loud, the trill of its melody familiar from his youth and sewing it with a tight stitch of _home_ —primitive as that instinct is—into his enjoyment. He barely stops dancing to accept the many goblets passed his way, and as the music reels on those around him seem to mirror his increasing dizziness and exuberance, flushed faces beaming back at him. He’s sure that he must have sweated most of the blue of Merlin’s marks away, though when he finds himself linking arms with Elyan, the other knight seems to find Gwaine’s broad grin and wobbly chivalrous gestures uproariously funny.

Finally Gwaine wanders off to empty his bladder far from the crowd, the air cooler away from the teeming euphoria of the dancers. He finds himself picking his path between beacons of sounds; lovers retreated to the dark and soft grass, their noises plucking at a fragile feeling of longing in Gwaine’s chest. He takes a different route back, drawn in another direction, lingering in the soothing dark and letting his thoughts drift back to Merlin—though they’d not strayed far—humming happily and revelling in thoughts of Merlin’s touch on his body, the whispers of Merlin’s words in his ear. Though he feels languid from the mead and tired from dancing, he feels more and more ready for another go at seeing how they fit together this much closer.

The royal tent appears ahead of him; pale, smooth cloth rising gracefully, lit more gently this far back from the tree. There are few other people around—servants, mostly, and other wanderers like Gwaine heading in the direction of the music. Gwaine goes towards the tent instead, his steps heavy from the drink and at the same time buoyant, happiness swirling in his heart and head. The servant standing near the opening bows his head as Gwaine approaches, lifting the tent flap enough for Gwaine to pass through.

The interior is soft with lantern light, rugs covering the ground with a multitude of cushions strewn about. Gwaine’s eyes find Merlin immediately, sitting with his knees folded up and goblet in one hand, locket clasped in the other. He seems to have lost his robe—and his boots—somewhere, and looks disheveled and satisfied; more so with the mark of Gwaine’s mouth red on his throat.

He grins wickedly up at Gwaine as he enters, saying, “See, I told you it would work,” and taking a draught from his cup, looking very pleased with himself.

“Yes, yes,” Arthur drawls, sprawled on a truly impressive pile of cushions opposite. “One day you’ll get tired of showing off, Merlin, but apparently that’s not today.”

Gwen is tucked under his arm, flushed and happy, and she bursts into a rapid round of applause. Lancelot is a little more sprawled than both of them—head resting on Gwen’s thigh and more relaxed and unrestrained than Gwaine’s ever seen, smiling languidly up at him. Gwaine feels more than drunk, abruptly—seeing the three of them so brazenly affectionate, the truth of their engagement is unmistakable—he almost staggers, mind racing through the implications.

He fumbles to keep his reeling thoughts from showing, managing to retain enough control to beam at them proudly in response to the applause, unsure what the praise is for. Then he slumps down next to Merlin and finds himself lying on his back in the soft cushions not entirely intentionally, though he groans at the decadent feel of them. Merlin leans over him, and Gwaine looks up into his flushed face, wondering giddily if the royal trio’s lack of reserve means that he can just kiss Merlin here and now.

“I summoned you,” Merlin informs him, a private edge of sultriness in the quirk of his lips as he reminds Gwaine of when he’d most recently used those words.

Gwaine laughs, so very tempted to pull Merlin down and tumble him amongst the cushions. He’s thwarted when Merlin sits back up, though when Gwaine manages to struggle upright again himself he’s rewarded by Merlin handing over his goblet. Gwaine meets his eyes over the rim as he drinks, then makes a deliberate show of finishing it with his head tipped back, throat exposed.

Merlin is dark-eyed and giggling a little drunkenly when Gwaine lowers the cup and wipes the back of his hand over his mouth.

“You seem to have a bit of blue about you, there,” Lancelot speaks up, leisurely teasing.

“What can I say?” Gwaine shrugs widely with deliberate nonchalance and not lifting his hand to touch his neck. “It’s a night of celebration.”

Gwen laughs, happily and helplessly, Arthur flushed and grinning as well. Merlin leans into Gwaine, ostensibly to knock shoulders, but he teeters, slumping heavier; apparently the mead had been flowing steadily in the royal tent as well.

Gwaine sees Merlin’s bare toes curling into the rug, and before he’s even thought it through he’s folding his fingers over them, squeezing. “What happened to your boots?”

Merlin’s face twists into a thoughtful frown, then clears again abruptly into eagerness. “I could summon them!”

“No!” Arthur and Gwen bellow as one, sending Lancelot into a fit of giggles.

“So can you summon them to appear here instantly, or… walk here by themselves?” Gwaine asks curiously.

Merlin grins, more than a little mischievous. “Either way. Though I had you walk here, rather than startle you in the middle of something.” His hand sneaks onto Gwaine’s thigh, squeezing just above his knee. The touch itself is thrilling in its brazenness, though for the same reason it sends a dart of anxiety through Gwaine.

“So, this whole year, and _days_ of travelling home, and you could have magicked me here…” Gwaine snaps his fingers. “Like that?”

Merlin bites his lip, guiltily coy.

“Not without my say-so,” Arthur grumbles.

Merlin throws a cushion at him. “I’m your _advisor_ now, and I advise no more sending Gwaine away.”

Arthur tosses the cushion back, which Merlin deflects without lifting a hand. “No more than anyone else,” Arthur says grudgingly. “But you needn’t worry. It’s not as if you’ll be left behind on any campaigns.”

“Really?” Gwaine raises his eyebrows, sobering a little—not liking the sound of Merlin on a battlefield one bit—and to be honest, somewhat incredulous at the thought as well. “To advise you on battle strategies?”

“To fight,” Arthur says shortly. “No point in letting our greatest weapon languish, as a servant or at court.”

Gwaine looks to Merlin for confirmation, and Merlin’s small, rueful smile has an edge of worry in it, as if he’s afraid of what Gwaine might think. “That’s about the size of it.”

“Greatest weapon?” Gwaine repeats, bemused.

“Just what do you think that was out there?” Arthur asks, and Gwaine abruptly sees the ritual from a more sobering point of view. Perhaps most of those attending had been overjoyed with it as a celebration of the end of Uther’s unjust laws, but with the light Arthur’s cast on it it’s difficult to see the growing of the oak—without even a word spoken on Merlin’s part—as anything but a show of power.

“Against who?” Gwaine sounds a little bleaker than he intended; he’s been back at Camelot only a day and already his King’s talking to him of being sent off again, to kill and maybe die, far from the home he’s barely spent any time in as it is.

“There are those still amongst the druids who consider any Pendragon their enemy,” Merlin says. “Twenty-five years of death and despair, you can’t really blame them for holding a grudge.”

Arthur nods grimly. “And not a few of my father’s most faithful lords who see this as evidence of my unfitness to rule.” He grimaces. “That’s the problem with my father only having one direct heir—the next in line is not so loyal to our family. And though making such changes so quickly after my father’s death will be used against me—” Arthur meets Gwaine’s eyes as if in challenge. “—I will not be a hypocrite, whatever else they may accuse me of.”

Gwen squeezes his knee, and Arthur’s gaze turns to her as if in mild surprise, drawn out of his increasingly dark mood by the touch.

“Even with Escetia under Arthur’s rule, there are other kingdoms that perceive it as an opportunity—especially as depleted as Camelot’s armies were by Morgana’s invasion—we are stretched thin, ripe for the taking.” Merlin shrugs. “Perhaps they will think twice, knowing Camelot has the might of sorcery behind it once more.”

“And you,” Gwaine says, scrutinising him—beginning to realise just how little Merlin had told him in his letters, for all they had turned confessional; and just what had been left unsaid in Merlin’s long silence.

Merlin shrugs again, meeting Gwaine’s eyes briefly before looking away, mouth pressed tight in a frown.

“I don’t know what you’re all worried about, none of you are to be left behind,” Gwen says shortly though not bitterly, her words both diffusing some of the graveness of the conversation yet still resonating in their honesty.

Lancelot struggles upright, and perhaps he’s a little drunker than Gwaine gave him credit for, because he leans in to press his face against Guinevere’s neck without pause or gracefulness. Merlin snorts and leans forward to pour himself another goblet of mead, watching with amusement while Arthur blusters and Lancelot peers at him through her hair, apparently unmoved; Gwen fond and entertained between them.

Gwaine reaches over to stroke the back of his hand briefly down Merlin’s jaw and throat, drawing Merlin’s attention back to him. “Perhaps we should leave them to it,” he suggests softly, just loud enough for Merlin’s ears.

Merlin lifts his cup, taking a long draught before lowering it again and gasping, pulling a face at the taste; he offers it to Gwaine, who downs the rest quickly. The tent spins a little as they stand, grappling each other for balance. They don’t bother letting go once they’re upright, arms slung around each other as they stumble out into the open air again, not fazing the placid servant standing outside one bit. After walking a few yards away into the darkness they pause, contemplating for a moment the faint music and light behind them.

Gwaine lifts his arm from Merlin’s shoulders, caressing Merlin’s neck instead, fingers lingering over the love bite before he rests his hand on Merlin’s nape and draws him in for a kiss, hoping they’re far enough away already to not be noticed. Merlin’s mouth is becoming thrillingly familiar, and it’s sweet and heady with the taste of mead. If this keeps up, Gwaine’s never going to want to stop kissing him at _all_ , and that’s not going to help their plans for secrecy one bit.

Gwaine draws back far enough to speak, pressing his forehead against Merlin’s. “You don’t have to go back there again, do you?” he whispers, priming his best pout.

Merlin wavers, steadying himself with hands on Gwaine’s hips. “Even if I did, I wouldn’t.” He angles forward for another kiss, mouth eager and a little sloppy.

“Perhaps we should spend the night in your wonderfully big new bed, then.” Gwaine nudges his hips forward. “I assume you have one, _my Lord_.”

“Mmm, yes,” Merlin hums in indulgent agreement. “Perhaps you can be _my_ advisor. Although—you are already my champion.”

“Is that what I am to you?” Gwaine murmurs, low and teasing even as Merlin’s words coil warmly in his chest, making his heart swell in painful eagerness.

“Gwen has Lancelot as hers, and Arthur as well…” Merlin’s hand splays over the tree on Gwaine’s surcoat again. “I think one of you is enough for me.”

Gwaine leans in to press his mouth to the side of Merlin’s neck and Merlin sways a little before leaning in as well, weight propped against Gwaine’s body. He shivers as Gwaine mouths gently against his skin, licking wet, devoted kisses below his ear; then he finally shakes himself and tilts back again, giving Gwaine’s mouth a disapproving look as it shifts into a moue of disappointment.

“Come on,” Merlin says reluctantly. “Or we’ll never make it back.”

“Are you sure you don’t need to summon your boots?” Gwaine looks down at Merlin’s bare feet, thinking of the not-that-short walk back to the castle.

“No,” Merlin says, expression turning a little dreamy as he curls his toes into the grass, “feels good.”

It’s all Gwaine can do not to hoist Merlin over his shoulder and carry him off—and he might even have tried to, had his strength not been so softened by drink and weariness. Hardly chivalric, perhaps, but Gwaine imagines that Merlin might be amused by it for that reason, if nothing else.

As it is, they only make it about halfway back. Though the torches lit hours earlier still flicker an avenue of beacons back to the castle, they’re far too drunk on mead and lust to stick to the path, instead straying further into the dark beyond it, punctuating their unfocused journey with pauses to kiss and grope.

At last they give in entirely, and after tumbling down a small slope into a softly-grassed dell, Merlin just rolls over and starts stripping Gwaine out of his clothes again. Gwaine gives as good as he gets, this time—not willing to get his end away again without at least _seeing_ more of Merlin, if not touching—and soon they’re both naked, facing each other, the moonlight much brighter with the sky unobscured above them.

Then Merlin climbs onto Gwaine’s lap, straddling him and reaching for his cock, petting it with eager familiarity. Gwaine groans, finally getting his hands on Merlin’s bare skin, skimming over his curved back and around to his sides, making Merlin tense and straighten. Gwaine firms the tickling touch and Merlin relaxes again, then Gwaine slides his hand down to finally hold Merlin’s cock, and Merlin’s body stiffens in an entirely different way.

It takes Gwaine a while to get hard, the long day and the copious amounts of mead catching up with him, not to mention being fucked and already coming twice that evening. “Sorry,” he gasps, though Merlin seems happy enough to take his time, finding out just where he can touch to make Gwaine’s hips flex up against him. “Not sure I’ll be good for much.”

Merlin tilts his head and rocks forward to kiss him, his own passion banked into something more mellow, but seemingly no less fond. His hands coax Gwaine with gentle touches. “Just as long as I can still have my wicked way with you,” he murmurs, voice husky.

“Whenever you want to,” Gwaine confirms, loving the way Merlin’s body rolls sinuously into his when Gwaine uses a particular, twisting stroke on his cock. After a while, Merlin guides Gwaine’s hand around to his arse—and that’s another thing Gwaine could very quickly get used to, Merlin summoning oil whenever they need it; Gwaine adds it to his mental list of reasons why a life on the run with Merlin would be fantastic.

Merlin grinds down onto Gwaine’s hand with more intent as Gwaine opens him up, clasping hot and tight around Gwaine’s seeking fingers. He pushes his own fingers into Gwaine’s mouth, eyes fixed there as Gwaine sucks and licks, and Gwaine can feel the swirl of Merlin’s fingerprints on his tongue when Merlin presses down against it.

“Want you,” Merlin whispers shakily, once Gwaine has found and relentlessly rubbed against the spot in him that makes him tremble and pant, and he hooks his elbow around Gwaine’s neck to pull him closer. His hips jerk fitfully, body slick with sweat, the musky scent of it and his arousal wreathing around them with the warm night air, so much richer than the faint traces of him in the scarf that Gwaine had spent a year savouring. But then he’s pushing Gwaine back, hands to Gwaine’s chest as he kneels up, urging Gwaine to lie against the soft grass.

His back arches beautifully as he sinks onto Gwaine’s cock, taking him inside gradually but then barely pausing before beginning a smooth ride. Gwaine’s hands rest on Merlin’s hips, to anchor himself amidst the heady sensation of Merlin gripping his cock, but mainly just to feel the rhythm of Merlin’s undulations as he sinks into breathless concentration, as if holding Gwaine’s cock in him requires all his attention.

Gwaine’s almost glad that he doesn’t think he’ll come again; grateful for his body’s tendency to deal with an excess of drink with prolonged hardness and lack of climax. It means he can focus on the way Merlin’s working himself to his own release, muscles in his thighs tensing as he lifts and lowers himself, back arching when he descends in a particularly good spot, or sometimes curling forward instead to run his hands over Gwaine’s chest. As his speed increases, he guides Gwaine’s hand to his cock and shows him how to touch it; Gwaine strokes it to the beat of his own pounding heart and soon Merlin is bucking against him, screwing down and tightening, his seed spilling onto Gwaine’s skin.

Merlin slumps over at the end of it, falling forward and sliding off him, thigh pressed to Gwaine’s still-hard cock and arm slung over his chest. He shakes with the aftershocks, clinging close and panting heavily, nuzzling under Gwaine’s arm as Gwaine wraps him in an embrace. Gwaine feels giddy with the accomplishment of making Merlin come, pride singing through his veins and making him tighten his hold.

“You’re so…” Merlin begins, words slurring and tone dreamy, then moments later he’s asleep, soft and heavy against Gwaine’s side. Gwaine is almost there himself, the background lull of his arousal intertwining with the languid pull of drunkenness, tugging him into sleep.

 

Gwaine wakes as the first direct light of dawn hits his eyelids, so it’s probably only been a few hours since he fell asleep. His mouth feels dry and mossy, and he presses his tongue against the roof of his mouth and swallows a few times to wet it and clear away the taste. Then he cracks his eyes open to see the blurry streaks of grass close to his face, trembling a little as he breathes.

He lifts his head and props himself up on an elbow to see a little further, and finds Merlin sitting beside him—naked as well, knees folded up to his chest and forearms resting atop them. The pose is relaxed, for all that his hair is a total mess and expression wrecked, both in a just-woke-up sort of way. His pale arms are tinted blue, the druidic symbols only faintly visible amidst the smudged mess, for which Gwaine feels proudly responsible.

“Good morning,” Merlin croaks.

Gwaine slumps back to the ground—on his back this time, stretching arms and legs out, pointing his toes and groaning at the various aches throughout his body, the sound turning into a truly enormous yawn. The stretch pulls at the dried seed on his belly, and he rubs his hand over it idly.

The new sunlight has peered up higher over the lip of the dell, chasing away the last of the coolness clinging to the grass, and Gwaine basks in it, sighing happily. He’s naked, and there’s sunlight, and Merlin: all is right with the world.

“It smells so good, here. I can’t tell you how sick I was of the sea. Even the _sound_ of it.”

Merlin huffs quietly in amusement, glancing down at him. “Shame it’s not like this all the time.”

“I know. But at least in winter I get to wear my lovely new cloak.”

Merlin shakes his head, finally slipping out of his pose, knees tilting sideways and hand braced on the ground near Gwaine. His other hand tucks Gwaine’s hair behind his ear, and he smirks, the well of fondness in his eyes taking the sting out of his next words. “You are so very vain.”

Gwaine smiles smugly, staring back. “You think I’m handsome.”

Merlin rolls his eyes and falls back down again, shoulder just brushing Gwaine’s as they lie side-by-side, gazing up. Small birds flit overhead, their voices high and adamant as they pick off the midges that haven’t yet been chased away by the heat of the morning sun.

Gwaine bends his knees up to plant his feet flat on the slightly-sloping ground, curling his toes to dig into the cool soil below the yielding grass.

“We can’t stay here forever, you know,” Merlin says at length, sounding reluctant.

Gwaine grunts in half-hearted agreement, letting his eyes slip half-closed to turn the lightening sky into a softer haze.

It’s barely minutes later that Gwaine begins to hear the chatter of people on the road, not as far away as he’d thought when he was stumbling drunkenly in the night.

Merlin sighs and sits up, and Gwaine stretches again, spine arching before he slumps back down. “Can you do the cleaning spell again?” he asks, and fails to suppress his shiver of delight when Merlin leans over for a kiss, running the flat of his hand over Gwaine’s belly and leaving a tingle in its wake.

“Mmm,” Gwaine hums, speaking freely while he still can; it feels like they’re the only people for miles when Merlin’s touching him. “Next time I want to taste you.”

Merlin groans and kisses him a little harder, closed-mouthed and firm before withdrawing again. “You’re incorrigible. At least wait until we get to a bed.”

Gwaine sits up, looking down between his legs. “Think I probably need far more sleep first, anyway,” he says sadly. Merlin laughs.

They dress themselves this time, and it’s easier to make sure everything’s well in order in the crisp light of day. Gwaine makes sure Merlin’s hair looks a little more presentable, and Merlin spells away the worst of the blue on Gwaine’s skin before they clamber back out of the dell. No one seems to notice them joining the slow drip of people wandering back to the castle from beyond the road, though a few people greet Merlin when they see him.

There are a number of green-robed druids heading in the same direction, and when Gwaine comments on it, Merlin shrugs. “Many of them were from the city originally,” he says. “They’re now free to return to their livelihoods.” He smiles wryly. “Apparently some magic users are quite cosmopolitan; fancy living amongst the druids for twenty years, then.”

Gwaine chuckles. “I suppose you’re going to be getting ideas now.”

“Oh no,” Merlin counters. “I’ve already lived in the city for years myself.” He glances over at Gwaine, grinning cheekily. “I’m a country boy at heart.”

Gwaine shakes his head in amusement, grinning right back; it’s so hard not to kiss him again, or at least take his hand. Merlin turns away again and is silent for a long time; it makes it easier for Gwaine to force the urges back under control. Perhaps it’s the hangover, not just from the mead but from the journey home, and the anticipation that had him wound tight for weeks, not to mention the sudden influx of Merlin into his life and body… but he feels raw and fragile again, all the more desperate for contact with Merlin so near and yet still so out of reach. Gwaine prays to every god he’s ever heard of that it won’t always be like this, or he thinks he might go mad.

“Ealdor’s mine now,” Merlin breaks into his thoughts, clearly following his own trail of logic from their last conversation, “as apparently, I need lands to hold a place in court, and Arthur decided it would make perfect sense to confer Ealdor on me.” He meets Gwaine’s eyes, concern and bafflement clear in his gaze. “It’s all a bit… beyond comprehension.”

“Does this mean I get to meet your mother?” Gwaine asks.

It startles a burst of laughter out of Merlin, having the desired effect of smoothing out the tension around his eyes. “Oh, she will _love_ you,” Merlin declares with relish, adjusting his stride to lean in and bump his shoulder against Gwaine’s. “My noblest of knights,” he says privately, voice low, before leaning back and drifting away again, smiling.

As the citadel looms before them, Merlin stops in the last stretch of grass, looking back. He glances at Gwaine sheepishly. “Won’t be a moment.”

A few minutes later, Merlin’s boots appear, tromping through the grass steadily towards them. Gwaine feels his eyebrows shoot up, and Merlin gives him another apologetic look.

“That’s a bit… excessive, isn’t it?” Gwaine asks, genuinely curious; from what he’s seen of Merlin’s magic, it seems rather efficient and to the point.

“The grass is nice, but I’m hardly walking through the town barefooted.”

“No, I mean—” Gwaine waves his hand in the direction of the woods. “Why have them _walk_ here when you could just… transport them in an instant?”

Merlin frowns a little, considering. “They’re supposed to walk,” he says at length. “It’s best not to interfere with the way of things. You hardly see very many things appear out of nowhere, do you?”

Gwaine has to concede that he doesn’t. When Merlin goes to crouch, though, Gwaine stops him. “Let me,” he says, mouth curling in a mischievous smile as he kneels down before Merlin and picks up his boot.

Merlin snorts in recognition of the gesture—and Gwaine wonders if it feels as long ago for Merlin as it does for him, for all that the excitement of it still flutters breathlessly in his chest, as it had then. Merlin’s feet are stained green at the sole, skin on the top as delicate and translucent as the heel is thick and coarse, and Gwaine tugs his boots on one by one, tightening each of the buckles to try and make sure Merlin doesn’t chafe his way to blisters.

“Thank you,” Merlin says warmly when Gwaine stands again, eyes as soft as his tone. His hand lingers as it slides off Gwaine’s shoulder and away. Then they walk onward into the citadel side-by-side, just a few paces of distance between them.

 

The castle seems somehow different to yesterday, for all that it’s still familiar; as if Gwaine’s stepped through a mirror into a different world. No one else seems to sense it; the corridors are still mostly full of servants bustling about with their heads down, and Gwaine wonders if that will be the case for most of the day as the nobility sleep off the celebration.

Merlin’s quietness had seemed comfortable as they walked through the town, for all that Gwaine had felt the increasing pressure of the citadel around them after waking so light under the open sky. But it had turned heavy as they ascended the steps in the courtyard, and he leads Gwaine to the same wing as yesterday in silence.

Gwaine doesn’t know if he should even be following—if, now they’re back in the very seat of propriety, he should wander back to the garrison, or try and find the room from yesterday again, or just generally not be seen to be tripping at Merlin’s heels. He recognises the tapestry at the end of the corridor they finally stop in, though, and Merlin pauses before a door Gwaine _doesn’t_ recognise.

Merlin turns, clearly withholding something from the way he’s pressing his lips together and searching Gwaine’s eyes. Gwaine holds his breath, but a moment later Merlin’s opening the door, gesturing Gwaine forward.

The room is bigger than the one he was shown to yesterday—big enough for there to be a table rather than a desk near the window, with room for a small party to sit around. There’s also a considerably large fireplace—not to mention the bed, which has a heavy canopy and curtains tied back to its posts.

Merlin’s looking at him anxiously when Gwaine’s gaze returns to him, hands knotting together.

“I’ll send for some water,” Merlin says abruptly, and ducks away to the door again.

Huffing out a sharp breath, Gwaine walks to the window and sees the same unidentifiable view as yesterday. To his right is another tapestry, to his left an open door; through it he can see another chamber entirely. Curious, he wanders through.

The other room is smaller, with a high window and desk standing nearby, chair pushed out from it and a chaotic scatter of parchment covering its surface. Gwaine walks around the desk idly, tucking the chair in and tipping the lid of the ink pot closed. A quill lies discarded near it, and he strokes his fingers along its dark feather.

“I hope that this is all right.”

Gwaine looks up, and Merlin is standing in the doorway. His expression is nearly blank, just the faintest hint of apprehension that could easily be misread as blitheness. Gwaine’s beginning to recognise it as armour around Merlin’s uncertainty, obvious when he knows just how animated Merlin is when he’s confident and relaxed.

“These are your rooms,” Gwaine hazards, feeling more than a little uncertain as well.

Merlin nods once. “Yours as well. If you… if you want. I mean, you don’t—”

Gwaine stalks forward, heart thudding in his chest, then stops a scant breath from Merlin. Merlin doesn’t back down, though his breath quickens at Gwaine’s proximity. “What happened to discretion?” Gwaine asks, barely above a whisper.

“Lancelot has rooms near the royal chambers,” Merlin returns breathily. “And there’s an adjoining room for you, if you decide you want to—if you want your own.” He tips his head toward the tapestry hanging in the main room without breaking eye contact. “Your things are there now.” His mouth quirks in a hint of challenge. “I could have a servant bring them through.”

“So it’s… we can…?” Gwaine’s hand has somehow found its way to Merlin’s waist, and their mouths have drifted closer. He can barely concentrate with how close to a kiss they are, for all that he wants— _needs_ —to make sure.

“Well, we can’t exactly tumble in the courtyard,” Merlin says, a bite of salacious heat in his words for all that their cadence is droll, as if just the thought of them getting into it again is as inflaming for him as it is for Gwaine. His hand is warm against Gwaine’s chest. “And there are such things as trustworthy servants, to keep our private lives our own. But Arthur wouldn’t cast us out even if there weren’t.”

Merlin’s hand slides up to cup the back of Gwaine’s neck, pulling him in the tiny distance remaining to a kiss. It’s not like the giddy, desperate kisses they shared yesterday, but still firm and heated, Merlin’s tongue pressing in determinedly.

“I wouldn’t let him if he tried,” Merlin continues when they part, sounding deadly serious this time. It sends a frisson of excitement up Gwaine’s spine.

For all of Merlin’s grim intensity—or perhaps because of it—Gwaine can’t stop himself from smiling. “Well, good. Because I think I quite like it here.”

Merlin’s mouth curls in return, his mood softening again. “Really,” he returns, fingers scratching lightly at the back of Gwaine’s neck, up into his hair.

“Mmm.” Gwaine lists closer again, feeling on the desk with his free hand while he distracts Merlin with another kiss. He lifts the quill while Merlin’s eyes are still closed, dragging the stiff-soft feather up the side of Merlin’s neck; Merlin gasps against his lips.

“I thought you wanted to sleep?” Merlin asks, breath catching as Gwaine traces the tip of the feather along the edge of his jaw.

“Later,” Gwaine says, stroking it down again to follow the cut of Merlin’s collar. “I think I have some promises to fulfil.”

Merlin purses his lips like he’s trying not to smile, but it shines through in his eyes anyway. “Later,” he agrees.  

**Author's Note:**

> You can also comment on [Dreamwidth](http://hope.dreamwidth.org/1735228.html) or [Livejournal](http://angstslashhope.livejournal.com/1676609.html).
> 
> Also check out the lovely fanart by waltzing_mice: [Thinking of the Quill](http://waltzing-mice.livejournal.com/53939.html) and [Merlin's Letter](http://waltzing-mice.livejournal.com/56640.html).


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